sity  of  California 


THE  HELPMATE 


BY 


MAY  SINCLAIR 

AUTHOR  or  "THE  DIVINE  TIRE,"   "  SUPERSXDED,* 
"AUDREY  CRAVEN,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY   HOLT   AND   COMPANY 

1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1906, 
BY 

MAY  SINCLAIR 


COPYRIGHT,   1907, 
BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


THE  QUINN  &  BODEN  CO.  PRESS 
RAHWAV,    N.   J. 


BOOK    I 


)6 


THE  HELPMATE 

BOOK    I 

CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Mrs.  Walter 
Majendie  still  lay  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  bed, 
with  her  face  turned  to  the  dim  line  of  sea  discernible 
through  the  open  window  of  the  hotel  bedroom. 

Since  midnight,  when  she  had  gone  to  bed,  she  had 
lain  in  that  uncomfortable  position,  motionless,  irremedi- 
ably awake.  Mrs.  Walter  Majendie  was  thinking. 

At  first  the  night  had  gone  by  her  unperceived,  black 
and  timeless.  Now  she  could  measure  time  by  the  dull 
progress  of  the  dawn  among  the  objects  in  the  room. 
A  slow,  unhappy  thing,  born  between  featureless  grey 
cloud  and  sea,  it  had  travelled  from  the  window,  shim- 
mered in  the  watery  square  of  the  looking-glass,  and 
was  feeling  for  the  chair  where  her  husband  had  laid  his 
clothes  down  last  night.  He  had  thought  she  was  asleep, 
and  had  gone  through  his  undressing  noiselessly,  with 
movements  of  angelic  and  elaborate  gentleness  that  well- 
nigh  disarmed  her  thought.  He  was  sleeping  now.  She 
tried  not  to  hear  the  sound  of  his  placid  breathing.  Only 
the  other  night,  their  wedding  night,  she  had  lain  awake 
at  this  hour  and  heard  it,  and  had  turned  her  face 
towards  him  where  he  lay  in  the  divine  unconsciousness 


2  The  Helpmate 

of  sleep.  The  childlike,  huddled  posture  of  the  sleeper 
had  then  stirred  her  heart  to  an  unimaginable  tenderness. 

Now  she  had  got  to  think,  to  adjust  a  new  and  devastat- 
ing idea  to  a  beloved  and  divine  belief. 

Somewhere  in  the  quiet  town  a  church  clock  clanged 
to  the  dawn,  and  the  sleeper  stretched  himself.  The  five 
hours'  torture  of  her  thinking  wrung  a  low  sob  from  the 
woman  at  his  side. 

He  woke.  His  hand  searched  for  her  hand.  At  his 
touch  she  drew  it  away,  and  moved  from  under  her 
cramped  shoulder  the  thick,  warm  braid  of  her  hair.  It 
tossed  a  gleam  of  pale  gold  to  the  risen  light.  She  felt 
his  drowsy,  affectionate  fingers  pressing  and  smoothing 
the  springy  bosses  of  the  braid. 

The  caress  kindled  her  dull  thoughts  to  a  point  of  flame. 
She  sat  up  and  twisted  the  offending  braid  into  a  rigid 
coil. 

"Walter,"  she  said,  "who  is  Lady  Cayley?" 

She  noticed  that  the  name  waked  him. 

"Does  it  matter  now?     Can't  you  forget  her?' 

"Forget  her?  I  know  nothing  about  her.  I  want  to 
know." 

"Haven't  you  been  told  everything  that  was  neces- 
sary?" 

"I've  been  told  nothing.    It  was  what  I  heard." 

There  was  a  terrible  stillness  about  him.  Only  his 
breath  came  and  went  unsteadily,  shaken  by  the  beating 
of  his  heart. 

She  quieted  her  own  heart  to  listen  to  it ;  as  if  she  could 
gather  from  such  involuntary  motions  the  thing  she  had 
to  know. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "I  oughtn't  to  have  heard  it.  And 
I  can't  believe  it, — I  don't,  really." 


The  Helpmate  3 

"Poor  child !    What  is  it  that  you  don't  believe?" 

His  calm,  assured  tones  had  the  force  of  a  denial. 

"Walter — if  you'd  only  say  it  isn't  true " 

"What  Edith  told  you?" 

"Edith?  Your  sister?  No;  about  that  woman — that 
you — that  she " 

"Why  are  you  bringing  all  that  up  again,  at  this  un- 
earthly hour?" 

"Then,"  she  said  coldly,  "it  is  true." 

His  silence  lay  between  them  like  a  sword. 

She  had  rehearsed  this  scene  many  times  in  the  five 
hours ;  but  she  had  not  prepared  herself  for  this.  Her 
dread  had  been  held  captive  by  her  belief,  her  triumphant 
anticipation  of  Majendie's  denial. 

Presently  he  spoke ;  and  his  voice  was  strange  to  her 
as  the  voice  of  another  man. 

"Anne,"  he  said,  "didn't  she  tell  you?  It  was  before 
I  knew  you.  And  it  was  the  only  time." 

"Don't  speak  to  me,"  she  cried  with  a  sudden  passion, 
and  lay  shuddering. 

She  rose,  slipped  from  the  bed,  and  went  to  a  chair  that 
stood  by  the  open  window.  There  she  sat,  with  her  back 
to  the  bed,  and  her  eyes  staring  over  the  grey  parade  and 
out  to  the  eastern  sea. 

"Anne,"  said  her  husband,  "what  are  you  doing 
there?" 

Anne  made  no  answer. 

"Come  back  to  bed;  you'll  catch  cold." 

He  waited. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  sit  there  in  that 
draught  ?" 

She  sat  on,  upright,  immovable,  in  her  thin  nightgown, 
raked  by  the  keen  air  of  the  dawn.  Majendie  raised  him- 


4  The  Helpmate 

self  on  his  elbow.  He  could  just  see  her  where  she  glim- 
mered, and  her  braid  of  hair,  uncoiled,  hanging  to  her 
waist.  Up  till  now  he  had  been  profoundly  unhappy  and 
ashamed,  but  something  in  the  unconquerable  obstinacy  of 
her  attitude  appealed  to  the  devil  that  lived  in  him,  a 
devil  of  untimely  and  disastrous  humour.  The  right 
thing,  he  felt,  was  not  to  appear  as  angry  as  he  was.  He 
sat  up  on  his  pillow,  and  began  to  talk  to  her  with  genial 
informality. 

"See  here, — I  suppose  you  want  an  explanation.  But 
don't  you  think  we'd  better  wait  until  we're  up  ?  Up  and 
dressed,  I  mean.  I  can't  talk  seriously  before  I've  had 
a  bath  and — and  brushed  my  hair.  You  see,  you've  taken 
rather  an  unfair  advantage  of  me  by  getting  out  of  bed." 
(He  paused  for  an  answer,  and  still  no  answer  came.) — 
"Don't  imagine  I'm  ignobly  lying  down  all  the  time, 
wrapped  in  a  blanket.  I'm  sitting  on  my  pillow.  I  know 
there's  any  amount  to  be  said.  But  how  do  you  suppose 
I'm  going  to  say  it  if  I've  got  to  stay  here,  all  curled  up 
like  a  blessed  Buddha,  and  you're  planted  away  over  there 
like  a  monument  of  all  the  Christian  virtues?  Are  you 
coming  back  to  bed,  or  are  you  not  ?" 

She  shivered.  To  her  mind  his  flippancy,  appalling  in 
the  circumstances,  sufficiently  revealed  the  man  he  was. 
The  man  she  had  known  and  married  had  never  existed. 
For  she  had  married  Walter  Majendie  believing  him  to 
be  good.  The  belief  had  been  so  rooted  in  her  that  noth- 
ing but  his  own  words  or  his  own  silence  could  have  cast 
it  out.  She  had  loved  Walter  Majendie;  but  it  was  an- 
other man  who  called  to  her,  and  she  would  not  listen 
to  him.  She  felt  that  she  could  never  go  back  to  that 
man,  never  sit  in  the  same  room,  or  live  in  the  same  house 
with  him  again.  She  would  have  to  make  up  her  mind 


The  Helpmate  5 

what  she  would  do,  eventually.  Meanwhile,  to  get  away 
from  him,  to  sit  there  in  the  cold,  inflexible,  insensitive, 
to  obtain  a  sort  of  spiritual  divorce  from  him,  while  she 
martyrised  her  body  which  was  wedded  to  him,  that  was 
the  young,  despotic  instinct  she  obeyed. 

"If  you  won't  come,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  it  only  re- 
mains for  me  to  go." 

He  got  up,  took  Anne's  cloak  from  the  door  where  it 
hung,  and  put  it  tenderly  about  her  shoulders. 

"Whatever  happens  or  unhappens,"  he  said,  "we  must 
be  dressed." 

He  found  her  slippers,  and  thrust  them  on  her  passive 
feet.  She  lay  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  From  the  move- 
ments that  she  heard,  she  gathered  that  Walter  was 
getting  into  his  clothes.  Once,  as  he  struggled  with  an 
insufficiently  subservient  shirt,  he  laughed,  from  mere 
miserable  nervousness.  Anne,  not  recognising  the  utter- 
ance of  his  helpless  humanity,  put  that  laugh  down  to 
the  account  of  the  devil  that  had  insulted  her.  Her  heart 
grew  harder. 

"I  am  clothed,  and  in  my  right  mind,"  said  Majendie, 
standing  before  her  with  his  hand  on  the  window 
sill. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  at  the  face  she  knew,  the  face 
that  (oddly,  it  seemed  to  her)  had  not  changed  to  suit 
her  new  conception  of  him,  that  maintained  its  protest. 
She  had  loved  everything  about  him,  from  the  dark,  curl- 
ing hair  of  his  head  to  his  well-finished  feet;  she  had 
loved  his  slender,  virile  body,  and  the  clean  red  and  brown 
of  his  face,  the  strong  jaw  and  the  mouth  that,  hidden 
under  the  short  moustache,  she  divined  only  to  be  no  less 
strong.  More  than  these  things  she  had  loved  his  eyes, 
the  dark,  bright  dwelling-places  of  the  "goodness"  she 


6  The  Helpmate 

had  loved  best  of  all  in  him.  Used  to  smiling  as  they 
looked  at  her,  they  smiled  even  now. 

"If  you'll  take  my  advice,"  he  said,  "you'll  go  back  to 
your  warm  bed.  You  shall  have  the  whole  place  to  your- 
self." 

And  with  that  he  left  her. 

She  rose,  went  to  the  bed,  arranged  the  turned-back 
blanket  so  as  to  hide  the  place  where  he  had  lain, 
and  slid  on  to  her  knees,  supporting  herself  by  the 
bedside. 

Never  before  had  Anne  hurled  herself  into  the  heavenly 
places  in  turbulence  and  disarray.  It  had  been  her  wont 
to  come,  punctual  to  some  holy,  foreappointed  hour,  with 
firm  hands  folded,  with  a  back  that,  even  in  bowing, 
preserved  its  pride;  with  meek  eyes,  close-lidded; 
with  breathing  hushed  for  the  calm  passage  of  her 
prayer;  herself  marshalling  the  procession  of  her 
dedicated  thoughts,  virgins  all,  veiled  even  before  their 
God. 

Now  she  precipitated  herself  with  clutching  hands 
thrown  out  before  her;  with  hot  eyes  that  drank  the 
tears  of  their  own  passion ;  with  the  shamed  back  and  pant- 
ing mouth  of  a  Magdalen;  with  memories  that  scattered 
the  veiled  procession  of  the  Prayers.  They  fled  before 
her,  the  Prayers,  in  a  gleaming  tumult,  a  rout  of  heavenly 
wings  that  obscured  her  heaven.  When  they  had  van- 
ished a  sudden  vagueness  came  upon  her. 

And  then  it  seemed  that  the  storm  that  had  gone  over 
her  had  rolled  her  mind  out  before  her,  like  a  sheet  of 
white-hot  iron.  There  was  a  record  on  it,  newly  traced, 
of  things  that  passion  makes  indiscernible  under  its  con- 
suming and  aspiring  flame.  Now,  at  the  falling  of  the 
flame,  the  faint  characters  flashed  into  sight  upon  the 


The  Helpmate  7 

blank,  running  in  waves,  as  when  hot  iron  changes  from 
white  to  sullen  red.  Anne  felt  that  her  union  with  Ma- 
jendie  had  made  her  one  with  that  other  woman,  that  she 
shared  her  memory  and  her  shame.  For  Majendie's  sake 
she  loathed  her  womanhood  that  was  yesterday  as  sacred 
to  her  as  her  soul.  Through  him  she  had  conceived  a 
thing  hitherto  unknown  to  her,  a  passionate  conscious- 
ness and  hatred  of  her  body.  She  hated  the  hands  that 
had  held  him,  the  feet  that  had  gone  with  him,  the  lips 
that  had  touched  him,  the  eyes  that  had  looked  at  him  to 
love  him.  Him  she  detested,  not  so  much  on  his  own 
account,  as  because  he  had  made  her  detestable  to  her- 
self. 

Her  eyes  wandered  round  the  room.  Its  alien  aspect 
was  becoming  transformed  for  her,  like  a  scene  on  a  tragic 
stage.  The  light  had  established  itself  in  the  windows 
and  pier-glasses.  The  wall-paper  was  flushing  in  its  own 
pink  dawn.  And  the  roses  bloomed  again  on  the  grey 
ground  of  the  bed-curtains.  These  things  had  become 
familiar,  even  dear,  through  their  three  days'  association 
with  her  happy  bridals.  Now  the  room  and  everything  in 
it  seemed  to  have  been  created  for  all  time  to  be  the  ac- 
complices and  ministers  of  her  degradation.  They  were 
well  acquainted  with  her  and  it ;  they  held  foreknowledge 
of  her,  as  the  pier-glass  held  her  dishonoured  and  dishev- 
elled image. 

She  thought  of  her  dead  father's  house,  the  ivy-coated 
Deanery  in  the  south,  and  of  the  small  white  bedroom,  a 
girl's  bedroom  that  had  once  known  her  and  would  never 
know  her  again.  She  thought  of  her  father  and  mother, 
and  was  glad  that  they  were  dead.  Once  she  wondered 
why  their  death  had  been  God's  will.  Now  she  saw  very 
clearly  why.  But  why  she  herself  should  have  been  sent 


8  The  Helpmate 

upon  this  road,  of  all  roads  of  suffering,  was  more  than 
Anne  could  see. 

She,  whose  nature  revolted  against  the  despotically 
human,  had  schooled  herself  into  submission  to  the  divine. 
Her  sense  of  being  supremely  guided  and  protected  had, 
before  now,  enabled  her  to  act  with  decision  in  turbulent 
and  uncertain  situations  of  another  sort.  Where  other 
people  writhed  or  vacillated,  Anne  had  held  on  her  course, 
uplifted,  unimpassioned,  and  resigned.  Now  she  was 
driven  hither  and  thither,  she  sank  to  the  very  dust  and 
turned  in  it,  she  saw  no  way  before  her,  neither  her  own 
way  nor  God's  way. 

Widowhood  would  not  have  left  her  so  abject  and  so 
helpless.  If  her  husband's  body  had  lain  dead  before 
her  there,  she  could  have  stood  beside  it,  and  declared 
herself  consoled  by  the  immortal  presence  of  his  spirit. 
But  to  attend  this  deathbed  of  her  belief  and  of  her  love, 
love  that  had  already  given  itself  over,  too  weak  to  strug- 
gle against  dissolution,  it  was  as  if  she  had  seen  some 
horrible  reversal  of  the  law  of  death,  spirit  returning  to 
earth,  the  incorruptible  putting  on  corruption. 

Not  only  was  her  house  of  life  made  desolate;  it  was 
defiled.  Dumb  and  ashamed,  she  abandoned  herself  like 
a  child  to  the  arms  of  God,  too  agonised  to  pray. 

An  hour  passed. 

Then  slowly,  as  she  knelt,  the  religious  instinct  re- 
gained possession  of  her.  It  was  as  if  her  soul  had  been 
flung  adrift,  had  gone  out  with  the  ebb  of  the  spiritual  sea, 
and  now  rocked,  poised,  waiting  for  the  turn  of  the  im- 
mortal tide. 

Her  lips  parted,  almost  mechanically,  in  the  utterance 
of  the  divine  name.  Aware  of  that  first  motion  of  her 
soul,  she  gathered  herself  together,  and  concentrated  her 


The  Helpmate  9 

will  upon  some  familiar  prayer  for  guidance.  For  a 
little  while  she  prayed  thus,  grasping  at  old  shadowy 
forms  of  petition  as  they  went  by  her,  lifting  her  sunken 
mind  by  main  force  from  stupefaction ;  and  then,  it  was  as 
if  the  urging,  steadying  will  withdrew,  and  her  soul,  at 
some  heavenly  signal,  moved  on  alone  into  the  place  of 
peace. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  broad  daylight  outside.  A  man  was  putting  out 
the  lights  one  by  one  along  the  cold  little  grey  parade. 
A  figure,  walking  slowly,  with  down-bent  head,  was  ap- 
proaching the  hotel  from  the  pier.  Anne  recognised  it 
as  that  of  her  husband.  Both  sights  reminded  her  that 
her  life  had  to  be  begun  all  over  again,  and  to  go  on. 

Another  hour  passed.  Majendie  had  sent  up  a  wait- 
ress with  breakfast  to  her  room.  He  was  always 
thoughtful  for  her  comfort.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
wonder  what  significance  there  might  be  in  his  thus  keep- 
ing away  from  her,  or  what  attitude  toward  her  he  would 
now  be  inclined  to  take.  She  would  not  have  admitted 
that  he  had  a  right  to  any  attitude  at  all.  It  was  for  her, 
as  the  profoundly  injured  person,  to  decide  as  to  the  new 
disposal  of  their  relations. 

She  was  very  clear  about  her  grievance.  The  facts,  that 
her  husband  had  been  pointed  at  in  the  public  drawing- 
room  of  their  hotel;  that  the  terrible  statement  she  had 
overheard  had  been  made  and  received  casually;  that  he 
had  assumed,  no  less  casually,  her  knowledge  of  the  thing, 
all  bore  but  one  interpretation:  that  Walter  Majendie 
and  the  scandal  he  had  figured  in  were  alike  notorious. 
The  marvel  was  that,  staying  in  the  town  where  he  lived 
and  was  known,  she  herself  had  not  heard  of  it  before. 
A  peculiarly  ugly  thought  visited  her.  Was  it  possible 
that  Scarby  was  the  very  place  where  the  scandal  had 
occurred  ? 

10 


The  Helpmate  1 1 

She  remembered  now  that,  when  she  had  first  proposed 
that  watering-place  for  their  honeymoon,  he  had  ob- 
jected on  the  ground  that  Scarby  was  full  of  people  whom 
he  knew.  Besides,  he  had  said,  she  wouldn't  like  it.  But 
whether  she  would  like  it  or  not,  Anne,  who  had  her 
bridal  dignity  to  maintain,  considered  that  in  the  matter 
of  her  honeymoon  his  wishes  should  give  way  to  hers. 
She  was  inclined  to  measure  the  extent  of  his  devotion 
by  that  test.  Scarby,  she  said,  was  not  full  of  people 
who  knew  her.  Anne  had  been  insistent  and  Majendie 
passive,  as  he  was  in  most  unimportant  matters,  reserving 
his  energies  for  supremely  decisive  moments. 

Anne,  bearing  her  belief  in  Majendie  in  her  innocent 
breast,  failed  at  first  to  connect  her  husband  with  the 
remarkable  intimations  that  passed  between  the  two  new- 
comers gossiping  in  the  drawing-room  before  dinner. 
They,  for  their  part,  had  no  clue  linking  the  unapproach- 
ably strange  lady  on  the  neighbouring  sofa  with  the  hero 
of  their  tale.  The  case,  they  said,  was  "infamous."  At 
that  point  Majendie  had  put  an  end  to  his  own  history 
and  his  wife's  uncertainty  by  entering  the  room.  Three 
words  and  a  look,  observed  by  Anne,  had  established  his 
identity. 

Her  mind  was  steadied  by  its  inalienable  possession  of 
the  facts.  She  had  returned  through  prayer  to  her  nor- 
mal mood  of  religious  resignation.  She  tried  to  support 
herself  further  by  a  chain  of  reasoning.  If  all  things  were 
divinely  ordered,  this  sorrow  also  was  the  will  of  God. 
It  was  the  burden  she  was  appointed  to  take  up  and  bear. 

She  bathed  and  dressed  herself  for  the  day.  She 
felt  so  strange  to  herself  in  these  familiar  processes  that, 
standing  before  the  looking-glass,  she  was  curious  to  ob- 
serve what  manner  of  woman  she  had  become.  The  inner 


12  The  Helpmate 

upheaval  had  been  so  profound  that  she  was  surprised 
to  find  so  little  record  of  it  in  her  outward  seeming. 

Anne  was  a  woman  whose  beauty  was  a  thing  of  gen- 
eral effect,  and  the  general  effect  remained  uninjured. 
Nature  had  bestowed  on  her  a  body  strongly  made  and 
superbly  fashioned.  Having  framed  her  well,  she 
coloured  her  but  faintly.  She  had  given  her  eyes  of  a 
light  thick  grey.  Her  eyebrows,  her  lashes,  and  her  hair 
were  of  a  pale  gold  that  had  ashen  undershades  in  it. 
They  all  but  matched  a  skin  honey-white  with  that 
even,  sombre,  untransparent  tone  that  belongs  to  a  tem- 
perament at  once  bilious  and  robust.  For  the  rest,  Na- 
ture had  aimed  nobly  at  the  significance  of  the  whole, 
slurring  the  details.  She  had  built  up  the  forehead  low 
and  wide,  thrown  out  the  eyebones  as  a  shelter  for  the 
slightly  prominent  eyes ;  saved  the  short,  straight  line  of 
the  nose  by  a  hair's-breadth  from  a  tragic  droop.  But  she 
had  scamped  her  work  in  modelling  the  close,  narrow  nos- 
trils. She  had  merged  the  lower  lip  with  the  line  of  the 
chin,  missing  the  classic  indentation.  The  mouth  itself 
she  had  left  unfinished.  Only  a  little  amber  mole,  verg- 
ing on  the  thin  rose  of  the  upper  lip,  foreshortened 
it,  and  gave  to  its  low  arc  the  emphasis  of  a  curve, 
the  vivacity  of  a  dimple  (Anne's  under  lip  was  straight 
as  the  tense  string  of  a  bow).  When  she  spoke  or 
smiled  Anne's  mole  seemed  literally  to  catch  up  her  lip 
against  its  will,  on  purpose  to  show  the  small  white  teeth 
below.  Majendie  loved  Anne's  mole.  It  was  that  one 
charming  and  emphatic  fault  in  her  face,  he  said,  that 
made  it  human.  But  Anne  was  ashamed  of  it. 

She  surveyed  her  own  reflection  in  the  glass  sadly,  and 
sadly  went  through  the  practised,  mechanical  motions  of  her 
dressing;  smoothing  the  back  of  her  irreproachable  coat, 


The  Helpmate  i  3 

arranging  her  delicate  laces  with  a  deftness  no  indiffer- 
ence could  impair.  Yesterday  she  had  had  delight  in  that 
new  garment  and  in  her  own  appearance.  She  knew  that 
Majendie  admired  her  for  her  distinction  and  refinement. 
Now  she  wondered  what  he  could  have  seen  in  her — 
after  Lady  Cayley.  At  Lady  Cayley's  personality  she 
had  not  permitted  herself  so  much  as  to  guess.  Enough 
that  the  woman  was  notorious — infamous. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  the  low  knock  she  had 
come  to  know,  and  Majendie  entered  in  obedience  to  her 
faint  call. 

The  hours  had  changed  him,  given  his  bright  face  a 
tragic,  submissive  look,  as  of  a  man  whipped  and  hounded 
to  her  feet. 

He  glanced  first  at  the  tray,  to  see  if  she  had  eaten  her 
breakfast. 

"There  are  some  things  I  should  like  to  say  to  you, 
with  your  permission.  But  I  think  we  can  discuss  them 
better  out  of  doors." 

He  looked  round  the  disordered  room.  The  associa- 
tions of  the  place  were  evidently  as  painful  to  him  as  they 
were  to  her. 

They  went  out.  The  parade  was  deserted  at  that  early 
hour,  and  they  found  an  empty  seat  at  the  far  end  of  it. 

"I,  too,"  she  said,  "have  things  that  I  should  like  to 
say." 

He  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  say  mine  first?" 

"Certainly;  but  I  warn  you,  they  will  make  no  differ- 
ence." 

"To  you,  possibly  not.  They  make  all  the  difference 
to  me.  I'm  not  going  to  attempt  to  defend  myself.  I  can 
see  the  whole  thing  from  your  point  of  view.  I've  been 


14  The  Helpmate 

thinking  it  over.  Didn't  you  say  that  what  you  heard 
you  had  not  heard  from  Edith  ?" 

"From  Edith?    Never!" 

"When  did  you  hear  it,  then  ?" 

"Yesterday  afternoon." 

"From  some  one  in  the  hotel?" 

"Yes." 

"From  whom?     Not  that  it  matters." 

"From  those  women  who  came  yesterday.  I  didn't 
know  whom  they  were  talking  about.  They  were  talking 
quite  loud.  They  didn't  know  who  I  was." 

"You  say  you  didn't  know  whom  they  were  talking 
about?" 

"Not  at  first — not  till  you  came  in.      Then  I  knew." 

"I  see.     That  was  the  first  time  you  had  heard  of  it  ?" 

Her  lips  parted  in  assent,  but  her  voice  died  under 
the  torture. 

"Then,"  he  said,  "I  am  profoundly  sorry.  If  I  had 
realised  that,  I  would  not  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  did." 

The  memory  of  it  stung  her. 

"That,"  she  said,  "was — in  any  circumstances — unpar- 
donable." 

"I  know  it  was.  And  I  repeat,  I  am  profoundly  sorry. 
But,  you  see,  I  thought  you  knew  all  the  time,  and  that 
you  had  consented  to  forget  it.  And  I  thought,  don't  you 
know,  it  was — well,  rather  hard  on  me  to  have  it  all  raked 
up  again  like  that.  Now  I  see  how  very  hard  it  was  on 
you,  dear.  Your  not  knowing  makes  all  the  difference." 

"It  does  indeed.    If  I  had  known " 

"I  understand.     You  wouldn't  have  married  me?" 

"I  should  not." 

"Dear — do  you  suppose  I  didn't  know  that?" 

"I  know  nothing." 


The  Helpmate  15 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  I  asked  you  why  you  cared 
for  me,  and  you  said  it  was  because  you  knew  I  was 
good?" 

Her  lip  trembled. 

"And  of  course  I  know  it's  been  an  awful  shock  to  you 
to  discover  that — I — was  not  so  good." 

She  turned  away  her  face. 

"But  I  never  meant  you  to  discover  it.  Not  for  your- 
self, like  this.  I  couldn't  have  forgiven  myself — after 
what  you  told  me.  I  meant  to  have  told  you  myself — 
that  evening — but  my  poor  little  sister  promised  me  that 
she  would.  She  said  it  would  be  easier  for  you  to  hear 
it  from  her.  Of  course  I  believed  her.  There  were 
things  she  could  say  that  I  couldn't." 

"She  never  said  a  word." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Perfectly.     Except — yes — she  did  say " 

It  was  coming  back  to  her  now. 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  exactly  what  she  said  ?" 

"N — no.  She  made  me  promise  that  if  I  ever  found 
things  in  you  that  I  didn't  understand,  or  that  I  didn't 
like " 

"Well — what  did  she  make  you  promise  ?" 

"That  I  wouldn't  be  hard  on  you.  Because,  she  said, 
you'd  had  such  a  miserable  life." 

"Poor  Edith!  So  that  was  the  nearest  she  could  get 
to  it.  Things  you  didn't  understand  and  didn't  like !" 

"I  didn't  know  what  she  meant." 

"Of  course  you  didn't.  Who  could?  But  I'm  sorry 
to  say  that  Edith  made  me  pretty  well  believe  you  did." 

He  was  silent  a  while,  trying  to  fathom  the  reason  of 
his  sister's  strange  duplicity.  Apparently  he  gave  it  up. 

"You  can't  be  a  brute  to  a  poor  little  woman  with  a 


1 6  The  Helpmate 

bad  spine,"  said  he ;  "but  I'm  not  going  to  forgive  Edith 
for  that." 

Anne  flamed  through  her  pallor.  "For  what?"  she 
said.  "For  not  having  had  more  courage  than  yourself? 
Think  what  you  put  on  her." 

"I  didn't.  She  took  it  on  herself.  Edith's  got  courage 
enough  for  anybody.  She  would  never  admit  that  her 
spine  released  her  from  all  moral  obligations.  But  I 
suppose  she  meant  well." 

The  spirit  of  the  grey,  cold  morning  seemed  to  have 
settled  upon  Anne.  She  gazed  sternly  out  over  the  east- 
ern sea.  Preoccupied  with  what  he  considered  Edith's 
perfidy,  he  failed  to  understand  his  wife's  silence  and  her 
mood. 

"Edith's  very  fond  of  you.  You  won't  let  this  make 
any  difference  between  you  and  her  ?" 

"Between  her  and  me  it  can  make  no  difference.  I  am 
very  fond  of  Edith." 

"But  the  fact  remains  that  you  married  me  under  false 
pretences?  Is  that  what  you  mean?" 

"You  may  certainly  put  it  that  way." 

"I  understand  your  point  of  view  completely.  I  wish 
you  could  understand  mine.  When  Edith  said  there  were 
things  she  could  have  told  you  that  I  couldn't,  she  meant 
that  there  were  extenuating  circumstances." 

"They  would  have  made  no  difference." 

"Excuse  me,  they  make  all  the  difference.  But,  of 
course,  there's  no  extenuation  for  deception.  Therefore, 
if  you  insist  on  putting  it  that  way — if — if  it  has  made 
the  whole  thing  intolerable  to  you,  it  seems  to  me  that 
perhaps  I  ought,  don't  you  know,  to  release  you  from 
your  obligations " 

She  looked  at  him.     She  knew  that  he  had  understood 


The  Helpmate  17 

the  meaning  and  the  depth  of  her  repugnance.  She  did 
not  know  that  such  understanding  is  rare  in  the  circum- 
stances, nor  could  she  see  that  in  itself  it  was  a  revelation 
of  a  certain  capacity  for  the  "goodness"  she  had  once 
believed  in.  But  she  did  see  that  she  was  being  treated 
with  a  delicacy  and  consideration  she  had  not  expected 
of  this  man  with  the  strange  devil.  It  touched  her  in 
spite  of  her  repugnance.  It  made  her  own  that  she  had 
expected  nothing  short  of  it  until  yesterday. 

"Do  you  insist?"  he  went  on.  "After  what  I've  told 
you  ?" 

"After  what  you've  told  me — no.  I'm  ready  to  be- 
lieve that  you  did  not  mean  to  deceive  me." 

"Doesn't  that  make  any  difference  ?"  he  asked  tenderly. 

"Yes.  It  makes  some  difference — in  my  judgment  of 
you." 

"You  mean  you're  not — as  Edith  would  say — going  to 
be  too  hard  on  me?" 

"I  hope,"  said  Anne,  "I  should  never  be  too  hard  on 
any  one." 

"Then,"  he  inquired,  eager  to  be  released  from  the 
strain  of  a  most  insupportable  situation,  "what  are  we 
going  to  do  next?" 

He  had  assumed  that  the  supreme  issue  had  been  de- 
cided by  a  polite  evasion ;  and  his  question  had  been  inno- 
cent of  all  momentous  meaning.  He  merely  wished  to 
know  how  they  were  going  to  spend  the  day  that  was 
before  them,  since  they  had  to  spend  days,  and  spend 
them  together.  But  Anne's  tense  mind  contemplated 
nothing  short  of  the  supreme  issue  that,  for  her,  was  not 
to  be  evaded,  nor  yet  to  be  decided  hastily. 

"Will  you  leave  me  alone,"  she  said,  "to  think  it  over? 
Will  you  give  me  three  hours?" 


1 8  The  Helpmate 

He  stared  and  turned  pale;  for,  this  time,  he  under- 
.stood. 

"Certainly,"  he  said  coldly,  rising  and  taking  out  his 
watch.  "It's  twelve  now." 

"At  three,  then?" 

They  met  at  three  o'clock.  Anne  had  spent  one  hour 
of  bewilderment  out  of  doors,  two  hours  of  hard  praying 
and  harder  thinking  in  her  room. 

Her  mind  was  made  up.  However  notorious  her  hus- 
band had  been,  between  him  and  her  there  was  to  be 
no  open  rupture.  She  was  not  going  to  leave  him,  to 
appeal  to  him  for  a  separation,  to  deny  him  any  right. 
Not  that  she  was  moved  by  a  profound  veneration  for  the 
legal  claim.  Marriage  was  to  her  a  matter  of  religion 
even  more  than  of  law.  And  though,  at  the  moment,  she 
•could  no  longer  discern  its  sacramental  significance 
through  the  degraded  aspect  it  now  wore  for  her,  she 
surrendered  on  the  religious  ground.  The  surrender 
would  be  a  martyrdom.  She  was  called  upon  to  lay  down 
her  will,  but  not  to  subdue  the  deep  repugnance  of  her 
soul. 

Protection  lay  for  her  in  Walter's  chivalry,  as  she  well 
knew.  But  she  would  not  claim  it.  Chastened  and 
humbled,  she  would  take  up  her  wedded  life  again.  There 
was  no  vow  that  she  would  not  keep,  no  duty  she  would 
not  fulfil.  And  she  would  remain  in  her  place  of  peace, 
building  up  between  them  the  ramparts  of  the  spiritual 
life. 

Meanwhile  she  gave  him  credit  for  his  attitude. 

"Things  can  never  be  as  they  were  between  us,"  she 
said.  "That  you  cannot  expect.  But " 

He  listened  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers,  accepting  from 
her  his  destiny.  She  reddened. 


The  Helpmate  19 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  offer  to  release  me " 

He  spared  her. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  hold  me  to  it,  then  ?" 
"I  am  not."     She  paused,  and  then  forced  herself  to 
it.     "I  will  try  to  be  a  good  wife  to  you." 
"Thank  you." 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  impossible  for  them  to  stay  any  longer  at  Scarby. 
The  place  was  haunted  by  the  presence  and  the  voice 
of  scandalous  rumour.  Anne  had  the  horrible  idea  that 
it  had  been  also  a  haunt  of  Lady  Cayley,  of  the  infamy 
itself. 

The  week-old  honeymoon  looked  at  them  out  of  its 
clouds  with  such  an  aged,  sinister,  and  disastrous  aspect 
that  they  resolved  to  get  away  from  it.  For  the  sake  of 
appearances,  they  spent  another  week  of  aimless  wander- 
ing on  the  East  coast,  before  returning  to  the  town  where 
an  unintelligible  fate  had  decided  that  Majendie  should 
have  a  business  he  detested,  and  a  house. 

Anne  had  once  asked  herself  what  she  would  do  if  she 
were  told  that  she  would  have  to  spend  all  her  life  in 
Scale  on  Humber.  Scale  is  prevailingly,  conspicuously 
commercial.  It  is  not  beautiful.  Its  streets  are  squalidly 
flat,  its  houses  meanly  rectangular.  The  colouring  of 
Scale  is  thought  by  some  to  be  peculiarly  abominable.  It 
is  built  in  brown,  paved  and  pillared  in  unclean  grey.  Its 
rivers  and  dykes  run  brown  under  a  grey  northeastern 
sky. 

Once  a  year  it  yields  reluctantly  to  strange  passion, 
and  Spring  is  born  in  Scale ;  born  in  tortures  almost 
human,  a  relentless  immortality  struggling  with  visible 
corruption.  The  wonder  is  that  it  should  be  born  at  all. 

To-day,  the  day  of  their  return,  the  March  wind  had 
swept  the  streets  clean,  and  the  evening  had  secret  gold 
and  sharp  silver  in  its  grey.  Anne  remembered  how, 

20 


The  Helpmate  21 

only  last  year,  she  had  looked  upon  such  a  spring  on  the 
day  when  she  guessed  for  the  first  time  that  Walter  cared 
for  her.  She  was  not  highly  endowed  with  imagination ; 
still,  even  she  had  felt  dimly,  and  for  once  in  her  life, 
that  sense  of  mortal  tenderness  and  divine  uplifting 
which  is  the  message  of  Spring  to  all  lovers. 

But  that  emotion,  which  had  had  its  momentary  in- 
tensity for  Anne  Fletcher,  was  over  and  done  with  for 
Anne  Majendie.  Like  some  mourner  for  whom  superb 
weather  has  been  provided  on  the  funeral  day  of  his 
beloved,  she  felt  in  this  young,  wantoning,  unsympa- 
thetic Spring  the  immortal  cruelty  and  irony  of  Nature. 
She  was  bearing  her  own  heart  to  its  burial;  and  each 
street  that  they  passed,  as  the  slow  cab  rattled  heavily  on 
its  way  from  the  station,  was  a  stage  in  the  intolerable 
progress ;  it  brought  her  a  little  nearer  to  the  grave. 

From  her  companion's  respectful  silence  she  gathered 
that,  though  lost  to  the  extreme  funereal  significance  of 
their  journey,  he  was  not  indifferent ;  he  shared  to  some 
extent  her  mourning  mood.  She  was  grateful  for  that 
silence  of  his,  because  it  justified  her  own. 

They  were  both,  by  their  temperaments,  absurdly  and 
diversely,  almost  incompatibly  young.  At  two-and- 
thirty  Majendie,  through  very  worldliness,  was  a  boy 
in  his  infinite  capacity  for  recoil  from  trouble.  Anne 
had  preserved  that  crude  and  cloistral  youth  which  be- 
longs to  all  lives  passed  between  walls  that  protect  them 
from  the  world.  At  seven-and-twenty  she  was  a  girl,  with 
a  girl's  indestructible  innocence.  She  had  not  yet  felt 
within  her  the  springs  of  her  own  womanhood.  Marriage 
had  not  touched  the  spirit,  which  had  kept  itself  apart 
even  from  her  happiness,  in  the  days  that  were  given  her 
to  be  happy  in.  Her  suffering  was  like  a  child's,  and  her 


22  The  Helpmate 

attitude  to  it  bitterly  immature.  It  bounded  her ;  it  anni- 
hilated the  intellectual  form  of  time,  obliterating  the  past, 
and  intercepting  any  view  of  a  future.  Only,  unlike  a 
child,  and  unlike  Majendie,  she  lacked  the  power  of  the 
rebound  to  joy. 

"Dear,"  said  her  husband  anxiously,  as  the  cab  drew 
up  at  the  door  of  the  house  in  Prior  Street,  "have  you 
realised  that  poor  Edith  is  probably  preparing  to  receive 
us  with  glee?  Do  you  think  you  could  manage  to  look 
a  little  less  unhappy  ?" 

The  words  were  a  shock  to  her,  but  they  did  her  the 
service  of  a  shock  by  recalling  her  to  the  realities  outside 
herself.  All  the  courtesies  and  kindnesses  she  owed  to 
those  about  her  insisted  that  her  bridal  home-coming  must 
lack  no  sign  of  grace.  She  forced  a  smile. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  know  I  was  looking  particularly 
unhappy." 

It  struck  her  that  Walter  was  not  looking  by  any  means 
too  happy  himself. 

"It  doesn't  matter;  only,  we  don't  want  to  dash  her 
down,  first  thing,  do  we?" 

"No — no.  Dear  Edith.  And  there's  Nanna — how 
sweet  of  her — and  Kate,  and  Mary,  too." 

The  old  nurse  stood  on  the  doorstep  to  welcome  them ; 
her  fellow-servants  were  behind  her,  smiling,  at  the  door. 
Interested  faces  appeared  at  the  windows  of  the  house 
opposite.  At  the  moment  of  alighting  Anne  was  aware 
that  the  eyes  of  many  people  were  upon  them,  and  she 
was  thankful  that  she  had  married  a  man  whose  self- 
possession,  at  any  rate,  she  could  rely  on.  Majendie's 
manner  was  perfect.  He  avoided  both  the  bridegroom's 
offensive  assiduity  and  his  no  less  offensive  affectation  of 
indifference.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that,  in  the  circum- 


The  Helpmate  23 

stances,  Anne  might  find  it  peculiarly  disagreeable  to  be 
stared  at. 

"Look  at  Nanna,"  he  whispered,  to  distract  her  atten- 
tion. "There's  no  doubt  about  her  being  glad  to  see 
you." 

Nanna  grasped  the  hands  held  out  to  her,  hanging  her 
head  on  one  side,  and  smiling  her  tremorous,  bashful 
smile.  The  other  two,  Kate  and  Mary,  came  forward, 
affectionate,  but  more  self-contained.  Anne  realised 
with  a  curious  surprise  that  she  was  coming  back  to  a 
household  that  she  knew,  that  knew  her  and  loved  her. 
In  the  last  week  she  had  forgotten  Prior  Street. 

Majendie  watched  her  anxiously.  But  she,  too,  had 
qualities  which  could  be  relied  on.  As  she  passed  into 
the  house  she  had  held  her  head  high,  with  an  air  of 
flinging  back  the  tragic  gloom  like  a  veil  from  her  face. 
She  was  not  a  woman  to  trail  a  tragedy  up  and  down 
the  staircase.  Above  all,  he  could  trust  her  trained 
loyalty  to  convention. 

The  servants  threw  open  two  doors  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  stood  back  expectant.  On  such  an  occasion  it  was 
proper  to  look  pleased  and  to  give  praise.  Anne  was 
fine  in  her  observance  of  each  propriety  as  she  looked 
into  the  rooms  prepared  for  her.  The  house  in  Prior 
Street  had  not  lost  its  simple  old-world  look  in  beautifying 
itself  for  the  bride.  It  had  put  on  new  blinds  and  clean 
paint,  and  the  smell  of  spring  flowers  was  everywhere. 
The  rest  was  familiar.  She  had  told  Majendie  that  she 
liked  the  old  things  best.  They  appealed  to  her  sense 
of  the  fit  and  the  refined ;  they  were  signs  of  good  taste 
and  good  breeding  in  her  husband's  family  and  in  him- 
self. The  house  was  a  survival,  a  protest  against  the 
terrible  all-invading  soul  of  Scale  on  Humber. 


24  The  Helpmate 

For  another  reason,  which  she  could  not  yet  analyse, 
Anne  was  glad  that  nothing  had  been  changed  for  her 
coming.  It  was  as  if  she  felt  that  it  would  have  been 
hard  on  Majendie  if  he  had  been  put  to  much  expense  in 
renovating  his  house  for  a  woman  in  whom  the  spirit  of 
the  bride  had  perished.  The  house  in  Prior  Street 
was  only  a  place  for  her  body  to  dwell  in,  for  her  soul 
to  hide  in,  only  walls  around  walls,  the  shell  of  the 
shell. 

She  turned  to  her  husband  with  a  smile  that  flashed 
defiance  to  the  invading  pathos  of  her  state.  Majendie's 
eyes  brightened  with  hope,  beholding  her  admirable  be- 
haviour. He  had  always  thoroughly  approved  of  Anne. 

Upstairs,  in  the  room  that  was  her  own,  poor  Edith 
(the  cause,  as  he  felt,  of  their  calamity)  had  indeed  pre- 
pared for  them  with  joy. 

Majendie's  sister  lay  on  her  couch  by  the  window,  as 
they  had  left  her,  as  they  would  always  find  her,  not  like 
a  woman  with  a  hopelessly  injured  spine,  but  like  a  lady 
of  the  happy  world,  resting  in  luxury,  a  little  while,  from 
the  assault  of  her  own  brilliant  and  fatiguing  vitality. 
The  flat,  dark  masses  of  her  hair,  laid  on  the  dull  red  of 
her  cushions,  gave  to  her  face  an  abrupt  and  lustrous 
whiteness,  whiteness  that  threw  into  vivid  relief  the  fea- 
tures of  expression,  the  fine,  full  mouth,  with  its  tem- 
perate sweetness,  and  the  tender  eyes,  dark  as  the  brows 
that  arched  them.  Edith,  in  her  motionless  beauty, 
propped  on  her  cushions,  had  acquired  a  dominant  yet 
passionless  presence,  as  of  some  regal  woman  of  the  earth 
surrendered  to  a  heavenly  empire.  You  could  see  that, 
however  sanctified  by  suffering,  Edith  had  still  a  placid 
mundane  pleasure  in  her  white  wrapper  of  woollen 
gauze,  and  in  her  long  lace  scarf.  She  wore  them  with 


The  Helpmate  25 

an  appearance  of  being  dressed  appropriately  for  a  su- 
perb occasion. 

The  sign  of  her  delicacy  was  in  her  hands,  smoothed 
and  wasted  with  inactivity.  Yet  they  had  an  energy  of 
their  own.  The  hands  and  the  weak,  slender  arms  had  a 
surprising  way  of  leaping  up  to  draw  to  her  all  beloved 
persons  who  bent  above  her  couch.  They  leapt  now  to 
her  brother  and  his  wife,  and  sank,  fatigued  with  their 
effort.  Two  frail,  nervous  hands  embraced  Majendie's, 
till  one  of  them  let  go,  as  she  remembered  Anne,  and  held 
her,  too. 

Anne  had  been  vexed,  and  Majendie  angry  with  her; 
but  anger  and  vexation  could  not  live  in  sight  of  the 
pure,  tremulous,  eager  soul  of  love  that  looked  at  them 
out  of  Edith's  eyes. 

"What  a  skimpy  honeymoon  you've  had,"  she  said. 
"Why  did  you  go  and  cut  it  short  like  that?  Was  it 
just  because  of  me?" 

In  one  sense  it  was  because  of  her.  Anne  was  helpless 
before  her  question ;  but  Majendie  rose  to  it. 

"I  say — the  conceit  of  her!  No,  it  wasn't  just  be- 
cause of  you.  Anne  agreed  with  me  about  Scarby.  And 
we're  not  cutting  our  honeymoon  short,  we're  spinning 
it  out.  We're  going  to  have  another  one,  some  day,  in  a 
nicer  place." 

"Anne  didn't  like  Scarby,  after  all?" 

"No,  I  knew  she  wouldn't.  And  she  lived  to  own  that 
I  was  right." 

"That,"  said  Edith,  laughing,  "was  a  bad  beginning. 
If  I'd  been  you,  Anne,  whether  I  was  right  or  not,  I'd 
never  have  owned  that  he  was." 

"Anne,"  said  Majendie,  "is  never  anything  but  just. 
And  this  time  she  was  generous." 


26  The  Helpmate 

Edith's  hand  was  on  the  sleeve  of  Majendie's  coat, 
caressing  it.  She  looked  up  at  Anne. 

"And  what,"  said  she,  "do  you  think  of  my  little  brother, 
on  the  whole  ?" 

"I  think  he  says  a  great  many  things  he  doesn't  mean." 

"Oh,  you've  found  that  out,  have  you?  What  else 
have  you  discovered?" 

The  gay  question  made  Anne's  eyelids  drop  like  cur- 
tains on  her  tragedy. 

"That  he  means  a  great  many  things  he  doesn't  say? 
Is  that  it?" 

Majendie,  becoming  restive  under  the  flicker  of  Edith's 
cheerful  tongue,  withdrew  the  arm  she  cherished.  Edith 
felt  the  nervousness  of  the  movement ;  her  glance  turned 
from  her  brother's  face  to  Anne's,  rested  there  for  a 
tense  moment,,  and  then  veiled  itself. 

At  that  moment  they  both  knew  that  Edith  had 
abandoned  her  glad  assumption  of  their  happiness.  The 
blessings  of  them  all  were  upon  Nanna  as  she  came  in 
with  the  tea-tray. 

Nanna  was  sly  and  shy  and  ceremonial  in  her  bearing, 
but  under  it  there  lurked  the  privileged  audacity  of  the 
old  servant,  and  (as  poor  Majendie  perceived)  the  secret, 
terrifying  gaiety  of  the  hymeneal  devotee.  The  faint 
sound  of  giggling  on  the  staircase  penetrated  to  the  room. 
It  was  evident  that  Nanna  was  preparing  some  horrid 
and  tremendous  rite. 

She  set  her  tray  in  its  place  by  Edith's  couch,  and 
cleared  a  side  table  which  she  had  drawn  into  a  central 
and  conspicuous  position.  The  three,  as  if  humouring  a 
child  in  its  play,  feigned  a  profound  ignorance  of  what 
Nanna  had  in  hand. 

She  disappeared,  suppressed  the  giggling  on  the  stairs, 


The  Helpmate  27 

and  returned,  herself  in  jubilee  let  loose.  She  carried 
an  enormous  plate,  and  on  the  plate  Anne's  wedding- 
cake  with  all  its  white  terraces  and  towers,  and  (a  little 
shattered)  the  sugar  orange  blossoms  and  myrtles  of  its 
crown.  She  stood  it  alone  on  its  table  of  honour,  and 
withdrew  abruptly. 

The  three  were  stricken  dumb  by  the  presence  of  the 
bridal  thing.  Nanna,  listening  outside  the  door,  attributed 
their  silence  to  an  appreciation  too  profound  for  utter- 
ance. 

They  looked  at  it,  and  it  looked  at  them.  Its  veil  of 
myrtle,  trembling  yet  with  the  shock  of  its  entrance,  gave 
it  the  semblance  of  movement  and  of  life.  It  towered 
in  the  majesty  of  its  insistent  whiteness.  It  trailed  its 
mystic  modesties  before  them.  Its  brittle  blossoms  quiv- 
ered like  innocence  appalled.  The  wide  cleft  at  its  base 
betrayed  the  black  and  formidable  heart  beneath  the  fair 
and  sugared  surface.  These  crowding  symbols,  percep- 
tible to  Edith's  subtler  intelligence,  massed  themselves  in 
her  companions'  minds  as  one  vast  sensation  of  dis- 
comfort. 

As  usual  when  he  was  embarrassed,  Majendie 
laughed. 

"It's  the  very  spirit  of  dyspepsia,"  he  said.  "A  cold 
and  dangerous  thing.  Must  we  eat  it?" 

"You  must,"  said  Edith;  "Nanna  would  weep  if  you 
didn't." 

"I  don't  think  I  can — possibly,"  said  Anne,  who  was 
already  reaping  her  sowing  to  the  winds  of  emotion  in  a 
whirlwind  of  headache. 

"Let's  all  eat  it — and  die,"  said  Majendie.  He  hacked, 
laid  a  ruin  of  fragments  round  the  evil  thing,  scattered 
crumbs  on  all  their  plates,  and  buried  his  own  piece  in 


28  The  Helpmate 

a  flower-pot.  "Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "that  Nanna  will 
dig  it  up  again  ?" 

Anne  turned  white  over  her  tea,  pleaded  her  headache, 
and  begged  to  be  taken  to  her  room.  Majendie  took  her 
there. 

"Isn't  Anne  well?"  asked  Edith  anxiously,  when  he 
came  back. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing.  She's  been  seedy  all  day,  and  the 
sight  of  that  cake  finished  her  off.  I  don't  wonder.  It's 
enough  to  upset  a  strong  man.  Let's  ring  for  Nanna  to 
take  it  away." 

He  rang.  When  Nanna  appeared  Edith  was  eating 
her  crumbs  ostentatiously,  as  if  unwilling  to  leave  the 
last  of  a  delicious  thing. 

"Oh,  Nanna,"  said  she,  "that's  a  heavenly  wedding- 
cake!" 

Majendie  was  reminded  of  the  habitual  tender  perfidy 
of  that  saint,  his  sister.  She  was  always  lying  to  make 
other  people  happy,  saying  that  she  had  everything  she 
wanted,  when  she  hadn't,  and  that  her  spine  didn't  hurt 
her,  when  it  did.  When  Edith  was  too  exhausted  to  lie, 
she  would  look  at  you  and  smile^  with  the  sweat  of  her 
torture  on  her  forehead.  He  knew  Edith,  and  wondered 
how  far  she  had  lied  to  Anne,  and  what  she  had  done  it 
for.  He  had  a  good  mind  to  ask  her;  but  he  shrank 
from  "dashing  her  down  the  first  day." 

But  Edith  herself  dashed  everything  down  the  first 
five  minutes.  There  was  nothing  that  she  shrank 
from. 

"I'm  sorry  for  poor  Anne,"  said  she;  "but  it's  nice  to 
get  you  all  to  myself  again.  Just  for  once.  Only  for 
once.  I'm  not  jealous." 

He  smiled,  and  stroked  her  hair. 


The  Helpmate  29* 

"I  was  jealous — oh,  furiously  jealous,  just  at  first,  for 
five  minutes.  But  I  got  over  it.  It  was  so  undignified." 

"It  didn't  show,  dear." 

"I  didn't  mean  it  to.  It  wouldn't  have  been  pretty. 
And  now,  it's  all  over  and  I  like  Anne.  But  I  don't  like 
her  as  much  as  you." 

"You  must  like  her  more,"  he  said  gravely.  "She'll 
need  it — badly." 

Edith  looked  at  him.  "How  can  she  need  it  badly, 
when  she  has  you?" 

"You're  a  good  woman,  and  I'm  a  mere  mortal  man. 
She's  found  that  out  already,  and  she  doesn't  like  it." 

"Wallie,  dear,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  exactly  what  I  say.  She's  found  it  out. 
She's  found  me  out.  She's  found  everything  out." 

"Found  out?     But  how?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  how.  Edie,  why  didn't  you  tell  her? 
You  said  you  would." 

"Yes— I  said  I  would." 

"And  you  told  me  you  had." 

"No.     I  didn't  tell  you  I  had." 

"What  did  you  tell  me,  then  ?" 

"I  told  you  there  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  that  it 
was  all  right." 

"And  of  course  I  thought  you'd  told  her." 

"If  I  had  told  her  it  wouldn't  have  been  all  right;  for 
she  wouldn't  have  married  you." 

Majendie  scowled,  and  Edith  went  on  calmly. 

"I  knew  that — she  as  good  as  told  me  so — and  I  knew 
her." 

"Well — what  if  she  hadn't  married  me?" 

"That  would  have  been  very  bad  for  both  of  you. 
Especially  for  you." 


30  The  Helpmate 

"For  me?  And  how  do  you  know  this  isn't  going  to 
•be  worse?  For  both  of  us.  It's  generally  better  to  be 
.straight,  and  face  facts,  however  disagreeable.  Espe- 
cially when  everybody  knows  that  you've  got  a  skeleton 
in  your  cupboard." 

"Anne  didn't,  and  she  was  so  afraid  of  skeletons." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  have  hauled  the 
horrid  thing  out  and  let  her  have  a  good  look  at  it.  She 
mightn't  have  been  afraid  of  it  then.  Now  she's  con- 
vinced it's  a  fifty  times  worse  skeleton  than  it  is." 

"She  wouldn't  have  lived  with  it  in  the  house,  dear. 
.She  said  so." 

"But  I  thought  you  never  told  her  ?" 

"She  was  talking  about  somebody  else's  skeleton, 
-dear." 

"Oh,  somebody  else's,  that's  a  very  different  thing." 

"She  meant — if  she'd  been  the  woman.  I  was  testing 
lier,  to  see  how  she'd  take  it.  Do  you  think  I  was  very 
wrong?" 

"Well,  frankly,  dear,  I  cannot  say  you  were  very  wise." 

"I  wonder " 

She  lay  back  wondering.  Doubt  of  her  wisdom  shook 
her  through  all  her  tender  being.  She  had  been  so  sure. 

"How  would  you  have  liked  it,"  said  she,  "if  Anne 
had  given  you  up  and  gone  away,  and  you'd  never  seen 
her  again?" 

His  face  said  plainly  that  he  wouldn't  have  liked  it  at 
all. 

"Well,  that's  what  she'd  have  done.  And  I  wanted 
her  to  stay  and  marry  you." 

"Yes,  but  with  her  eyes  open." 

She  shook  her  head,  the  head  that  would  have  been 
so  wise  for  him. 


The  Helpmate  31 

"No,"  said  she.  "Anne's  one  of  those  people  who  see 
best  with  their  eyes  shut." 

"Well,  they're  open  enough  now  in  all  conscience.  But 
there's  one  thing  she  hasn't  found  out.  She  doesn't 
know  how  it  happened.  Can  you  tell  her?  /  can't.  I 
told  her  there  were  extenuating  circumstances;  but  of 
course  I  couldn't  go  into  them." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  no  circumstances  could  extenuate  facts." 

"I  can  hear  her  saying  it." 

"I  understand  her  state  of  mind,"  said  Majendie.. 
"She  couldn't  see  the  circumstances  for  the  facts." 

"Our  Anne  is  but  young.  In  ten  years'  time  she  won't 
be  able  to  see  the  facts  for  the  circumstances." 

"Well— will  you  tell  her?" 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"Make  her  see  that  I'm  not  necessarily  an  utter  brute 
just  because  I " 

"I'll  make  her  see  everything." 

"Forgive  me  for  bothering  you." 

"Dear — forgive  me  for  breaking  my  promise  and  de- 
ceiving you." 

He  bent  to  her  weak  arms. 

"I  believe,"  she  whispered,  "the  end  will  yet  justify 
the  means." 

"Oh— the  end." 

He  didn't  see  it ;  but  he  was  convinced  that  there  could 
hardly  be  a  worse  beginning. 

He  went  upstairs,  where  Anne  lay  in  the  agonies  of 
her  bilious  attack.  He  found  comfort,  rather  than  gave 
it,  by  holding  handkerchiefs  steeped  in  eau-de-Cologne  to 
her  forehead.  It  gratified  him  to  find  that  she  would  let 
him  do  it  without  shrinking  from  his  touch. 

But  Anne  was  past  that. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FOR  once  in  his  life  Majendie  was  glad  that  he  had  a 
business.  Shipping  (he  was  a  ship-owner)  was  a 
distraction  from  the  miserable  problem  that  weighed  on 
him  at  home. 

Anne's  morning  face  was  cold  to  him.  She  lay  crushed 
in  her  bed.  She  had  had  a  bad  night,  and  he  knew  him- 
self to  be  the  cause  of  it. 

His  pity  for  her  hurt  like  passion. 

"How  is  she?"  asked  Edith,  as  he  came  into  her  room 
before  going  to  the  office. 

"She's  a  wreck,"  he  said,  "a  ruin.  She's  had  an  awful 
night.  Be  kind  to  her,  Edie." 

Edie  was  very  kind.  But  she  said  to  herself  that  if 
Anne  was  a  ruin  that  was  not  at  all  a  bad  thing. 

Edith  Majendie  was  a  loving  but  shrewd  observer  of 
the  people  of  her  world.  Lying  on  her  back  she  saw 
them  at  an  unusual  angle,  almost  as  if  they  moved  on  a 
plane  invisible  to  persons  who  go  about  upright  on  their 
legs.  The  four  walls  of  her  room  concentrated  her  vi- 
sion in  bounding  it.  She  saw  few  women  and  fewer 
men,  but  she  saw  them  apart  from  those  superficial  ac- 
tivities which  distract  and  darken  judgment.  Faces  that 
she  was  obliged  to  see  bending  over  her  had  another 
aspect  for  Edith  than  that  which  they  presented  to  the 
world  at  large.  Anne  Majendie,  who  had  come  so  near 
to  Edith,  had  always  put  a  certain  distance  between  her- 
self and  her  other  friends.  While  they  were  chiefly  im- 

32 


The  Helpmate  33 

pressed  with  her  superb  superiority,  and  saw  her  forever 
standing  on  a  pedestal,  Edith  declared  that  she  knew  noth- 
ing of  Anne's  austere  and  impressive  attributes.  She  pro- 
tested against  anything  so  dreary  as  the  other  people's 
view  of  her.  They  and  their  absurd  pedestals !  She 
refused  to  regard  her  sister-in-law  as  an  established  so- 
lemnity, eminent  and  lonely  in  the  scene.  Pedestals  were 
all  very  well  at  a  proper  distance,  but  at  a  close  view 
they  were  foreshortening  to  the  human  figure.  Other 
people  might  like  to  see  more  pedestal  than  Anne ;  she 
preferred  to  see  more  Anne  than  pedestal.  If  they  didn't 
know  that  Anne  was  dear  and  sweet,  she  did.  So  did 
Walter. 

If  they  wanted  proof  of  it,  why,  would  any  other 
woman  have  put  up  with  her  and  her  wretched  spine? 
Weren't  they  all,  Anne's  friends,  sorry  for  Anne  just  be- 
cause of  it,  of  her?  If  you  came  to  think  of  it,  if  you 
traced  everything  back  to  the  beginning,  her  spine  had 
been  the  cause  of  all  Anne's  troubles. 

That  was  how  she  had  always  reasoned  it  out.  No 
suffering  had  ever  obscured  the  lucidity  of  Edith's  mind. 
She  knew  that  it  was  her  spine  that  had  kept  her  brother 
from  marrying  all  those  years.  He  couldn't  leave  her 
alone  with  it,  neither  could  he  ask  any  woman  to  share 
the  house  inhabited,  pervaded,  dominated  by  it.  Un- 
safeguarded  by  marriage,  he  had  fallen  into  evil  hands. 
To  Edith,  who  had  plenty  of  leisure  for  reflection,  all 
this  had  become  terribly  clear. 

Then  Anne  had  come,  the  strong  woman  who  could 
bear  Walter's  burden  for  him.  She  had  been  jealous  of 
Anne  at  first,  for  five  minutes.  Then  she  had  blessed 
her. 

But  Edith,  as  she  had  told  her  brother,  was  not  a  fool. 


34  The  Helpmate 

And  all  the  time,  while  her  heart  leapt  to  the  image  of 
Anne  in  her  dearness  and  sweetness,  her  brain  saw  per- 
fectly well  that  her  sister-in-law  had  not  been  free  from 
the  sin  of  pride  (that  came,  said  Edith,  of  standing  on 
a  pedestal.  It  was  better  to  lie  on  a  couch  than  stand 
on  a  pedestal;  you  knew,  at  any  rate,  where  you  were). 

Now,  as  Edith  also  said,  there  can  be  nothing  more 
prostrating  to  a  woman's  pride  than  a  bad  bilious  attack. 
Especially  when  it  exposes  you  to  the  devoted  ministra- 
tions of  a  husband  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  dis- 
approve of,  and  compels  you  to  a  baffling  view  of  him. 

Anne  owned  herself  baffled. 

Her  attack  had  chastened  her.  She  had  been  touched 
by  Walter's  kindness,  by  the  evidence  (if  she  had  needed 
it)  that  she  was  as  dear  to  him  in  her  ignominious  agony 
as  she  had  been  in  the  beauty  of  her  triumphal  health. 
As  he  moved  about  her,  he  became  to  her  insistent  out- 
ward sense  the  man  she  had  loved  because  of  his  good- 
ness. It  was  so  that  she  had  first  seen  his  strong  mascu- 
line figure  moving  about  Edith  on  her  couch,  handling 
her  with  the  supreme  gentleness  of  strength.  She  had 
not  been  two  days  in  the  house  in  Prior  Street  before  her 
memories  assailed  her.  Her  new  and  detestable  view 
of  Walter  contended  with  her  old  beloved  vision  of  him. 
The  two  were  equally  real,  equally  vivid,  and  she  could 
not  reconcile  them.  Walter  himself,  seen  again  in  his 
old  surroundings,  was  protected  by  an  army  of  associa- 
tions. The  manifestations  of  his  actual  presence  were 
also  such  as  to  appeal  to  her  memory  against  her  judg- 
ment. Her  memory  was  in  league  with  her.  But  when 
the  melting  mood  came  over  her,  her  conscience  resisted 
and  rose  against  them  both. 

Edith,  watching  for  the  propitious  moment,  could  not 


The  Helpmate  35 

tell  by  what  signs  she  would  recognise  it  when  it  came. 
Her  own  hour  was  the  early  evening.  She  had  always 
brightened  towards  six  o'clock,  the  time  of  her  brother's 
home-coming. 

To-day  he  had  removed  himself,  to  give  her  her  chance 
with  Anne.  She  could  see  him  pottering  about  the  gar- 
den below  her  window.  He  had  kept  that  garden  with 
care.  He  had  mown  and  sown,  and  planted,  and  weeded, 
and  watered  it,  that  Edith  might  always  have  something 
pretty  to  look  at  from  her  window.  With  its  green  grass 
plot  and  gay  beds,  the  tiny  oblong  space  defied  the  ex- 
tending grime  and  gloom  of  Scale.  This  year  he  had 
planted  it  for  Anne.  He  had  set  a  thousand  bulbs  for 
her,  and  many  thousand  flowers  were  to  have  sprung  up 
in  time  to  welcome  her.  But  something  had  gone  wrong 
with  them.  They  had  suffered  by  his  absence.  As 
Edith  looked  out  of  the  window  he  was  stooping  low,  on 
acutely  bended  knees,  sorrowfully  preoccupied  with  a 
broken  hyacinth.  He  had  his  back  to  them. 

To  Edith's  mind  there  was  something  heart-rending 
in  the  expression  of  that  intent,  innocent  back,  so  sur- 
rendered to  their  gaze,  so  unconscious  of  its  own  pathetic 
curve.  She  wondered  if  it  appealed  to  Anne  in  that  way. 
She  judged  from  the  expression  of  her  sister-in-law's 
face  that  it  did  not  appeal  to  her  in  any  way  at  all. 

"Poor  dear,"  said  she,  "he's  still  worrying  about  those 
blessed  bulbs  of  mine — of  yours,  I  mean." 

"Don't,  Edie.  As  if  I  wanted  to  take  your  bulbs  away 
from  you.  I'm  not  jealous." 

"No  more  am  I,"  said  Edie.  "Let's  say  both  our 
bulbs.  I  wish  he  wouldn't  garden  quite  so  much,  though. 
It  always  makes  his  head  ache." 

"Why  does  he  do  it,  then?"  asked  Anne  calmly. 


36  The  Helpmate 

Her  calmness  irritated  Edith. 

"Oh,  why  does  Walter  do  anything?  Because  he's  an 
angel!" 

Anne's  silence  gave  her  the  opening  she  was  looking 
for. 

"You  know,  you  used  to  think  so,  too." 

"Of  course  I  did,"  said  Anne  evasively. 

"And  equally  of  course,  you  don't,  now  you've  married 
him?" 

"I  have  married  him.  What  more  could  I  do  to  prove 
my  appreciation  ?" 

"Oh,  heaps  more.  Mere  marrying's  nothing.  Any 
woman  can  do  that." 

"Do  you  think  so?  It  seems  to  me  that  marrying — 
mere  marrying — may  be  a  great  deal — about  as  much  as 
many  men  have  a  right  to  ask." 

"Hasn't  every  man  a  right  to  ask  for — what  shall  I 
say — a  little  understanding — from  the  woman  he  cares 
for?" 

"Edith,  what  has  he  told  you  ?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear,  that  I  hadn't  seen  for  my- 
self." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  I  'misunderstood'  him?" 

"Did  he  pose  as  I'homme  incompris?     No,  he  didn't." 

"Still — he  told  you,"  Anne  insisted. 

"Of  course  he  did."  She  brushed  the  self-evident 
aside  and  returned  to  her  point.  "He  does  care  for  you. 
That,  at  least,  you  can  understand." 

"No,  that's  just  what  I  don't  understand.  I  can't  un- 
derstand his  caring.  I  can't  understand  him.  I  can't 
understand  anything."  Her  voice  shook. 

"Poor  darling,  I  know  it's  hard,  sometimes.  Still,  you 
do  know  what  he  is." 


The  Helpmate  37 

"I  know  what  he  was — what  I  thought  him.  It's  hard 
to  reconcile  it  with  what  he  is." 

"With  what  you  think  him  ?  You  can't,  of  course.  I 
suppose  you  think  him  something  too  bad  for  words  ?" 

Anne  broke  down  weakly. 

"Oh,  Edith,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"What?    That  Wallie  was  bad?" 

"Yes,  yes.  It  would  have  been  better  if  you'd  told  me 
everything." 

"Well,  dear,  whatever  I  told  you,  I  couldn't  have  told 
you  that.  It  wouldn't  have  been  true." 

"He  says  himself  that  everything  was  true." 

"Everything  probably  is  true.  But  then,  the  point  is 
that  you  don't  know  the  whole  truth,  or  even  half  of  it. 
That's  just  what  he  couldn't  tell  you.  I  should  have  told 
you.  That's  where  I  bungled  it.  You  know  he  left  it 
to  me;  he  said  I  was  to  tell  you." 

"Yes,  he  told  me  that.  He  didn't  mean  to  deceive 
me." 

"No  more  did  I.  If  my  brother  had  been  a  bad  man, 
dear,  do  you  suppose  for  a  moment  I'd  have  let  him 
marry  my  dearest  friend?" 

"You  didn't  know.  We  don't  know  these  things, 
Edith.  That's  the  terrible  part  of  it." 

"Yes,  it's  the  terrible  part  of  it.  But  /  knew  all  right. 
He  never  kept  anything  from  me,  not  for  long." 

"But,  Edith — how  could  he?  How  could  he?  When 

the  woman — Lady  Cayley She  ivas  bad,  wasn't 

she?" 

"Of  course  she  was  bad.  Bad  as  they  make  them — 
worse.  You  know  she  was  divorced?" 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  "that's  what  I  do  know." 

"Well,  she  wasn't  divorced  on  Walter's  account,  my 


38  The  Helpmate 

dear.  There  were  several  others — four,  five,  goodness 
knows  how  many.  Poor  Walter  was  a  mere  drop  in  her 
ocean." 

Anne  stared  a  moment  at  the  expanse  presented  to 
her. 

"But,"  said  she,  "he  was  in  it." 

"Oh  yes,  he  was  in  it.  The  ocean  swallowed  him  as 
it  swallowed  the  others.  But  it  couldn't  keep  him.  He 
couldn't  live  in  it,  like  them." 

"But  how  did  she  get  hold  of  him  ?" 

"She  got  hold  of  him  by  appealing  to  his  chivalry." 

(His  chivalry — she  knew  it.) 

"It's  what  happens,  over  and  over  again.  He  thought 
her  a  vilely  injured  woman.  He  may  have  thought  her 
good.  He  certainly  thought  her  pathetic.  It  was  the 
pathos  that  did  it." 

"That— did— it?" 

"Yes.  Did  it.  She  hurled  herself  at  his  head — at  his 
knees — at  his  feet — till  he  had  to  lift  her.  And  that's 
how  it  happened." 

Anne's  spirit  writhed  as  she  contemplated  the  hap- 
pening. 

"I  know  it  oughtn't  to  have  happened.  I  know  Wal- 
ter wasn't  the  holy  saint  he  ought  to  have  been.  But 
oh,  he  was  a  martyr!"  She  paused.  "And — he  was 
very  young." 

"Edith — when  was  it?" 

"Seven  years  ago." 

Anne  pondered.  The  seven  years  helped  to  purify 
him.  Every  day  helped  that  threw  the  horror  further 
back  in  time — separated  it  from  her.  If — if  he  had  not 
been  steeped  too  long  in  it.  She  wanted  to  know  how 
long,  but  she  was  afraid  to  ask;  afraid  lest  it  should 


The  Helpmate  39 

be  brought  nearer  to  her  than  she  could  bear.  Edith 
saw  her  fear. 

"It  lasted  two  years.     It  was  all  my  fault." 

"Your  fault?" 

"Yes,  my  fault.  Because  of  my  horrid  spine.  You 
see,  it  kept  him  from  marrying." 

"Well,  but " 

"Well,  but  it  couldn't  have  happened  if  he  had  mar- 
ried. How  could  it?  How  could  it  have  happened  if 
you  had  been  there?  You  would  have  saved  him." 

She  paused  on  that  note,  a  long,  illuminating  pause. 
The  note  itself  was  a  divine  inspiration.  It  rang  all 
golden.  It  thrilled  to  the  verge  of  the  dominant  chord 
in  Anne.  It  touched  her  soul,  the  mother  of  brooding, 
mystic  harmonies. 

"You  would  have  saved  him." 

Anne  saw  herself  for  one  moment  as  his  guardian  an- 
gel, her  mission  frustrated  through  a  flaw  of  time.  That 
vision  was  dashed  by  another,  herself  as  the  ideal,  the 
star  he  should  have  looked  to  before  its  dawn,  herself 
dishonoured  by  his  young  haste,  his  passion,  his  failure 
to  foresee. 

"He  should  have  waited  for  me." 

"Did  you  wait  for  him?" 

A  quick  flush  pulsed  through  the  whiteness  of  Anne's 
face.  She  looked  back  seven  years  to  her  girlhood  in 
the  southern  Deanery,  her  home.  She  had  another  vi- 
sion, a  vision  of  a  Minor  Canon,  whom  she  had  loved 
with  the  pure  worship  of  her  youth,  a  love  of  which 
somehow  she  was  now  ashamed.  Ashamed,  though  it 
had  then  seemed  to  her  so  spiritual.  Her  dead  parents 
had  desired  the  marriage,  but  neither  she  nor  they  had 
*iie  power  to  bring  it  about. 


40  The  Helpmate 

Edith  had  never  heard  of  the  Minor  Canon.  She  had 
drawn  a  bow  at  a  venture. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "why  not?  It's  only  the  very 
elect  lovers  who  can  say  to  each  other,  'I  never  loved  any 
one  but  you.'  " 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Anne,  "I  never  loved  any  one  else 
well  enough  to  marry  him." 

For,  in  her  fancy,  the  Minor  Canon,  being  withdrawn 
in  time,  had  ceased  to  occupy  space ;  he  had  become  that 
which  he  was  for  her  girlhood,  a  disembodied  dream. 
She  could  not  have  explained  why  she  was  so  ashamed 
of  him.  What  ground  of  comparison  was  there  between 
that  blameless  one  and  Lady  Cayley? 

"Edith,"  she  said  suddenly,  "did  you  ever  see 
her?" 

"Never,"  said  Edith  emphatically. 

"You  don't  know  what  she  was  like?" 

"I  don't.  I  never  wanted  to.  I  dare  say  there  are 
people  in  Scale  who  could  tell  you  all  about  her,  only  I 
wouldn't  inquire  if  I  were  you." 

"Did  it  happen  at  Scarby?"  She  was  determined  to 
know  the  worst. 

"I  believe  so." 

"Oh — why  did  I  ever  go  there?" 

"He  didn't  want  you  to.     That  was  why." 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"Nobody  knows.     She  might  be  anywhere." 

"Not  here?" 

"No,  not  here.  My  dear,  you  mustn't  get  her  on  your 
nerves." 

"I'm  afraid  of  meeting  her." 

"It  isn't  likely  that  you  ever  will.  She  isn't  the  sort 
one  does  meet — now,  poor  thing." 


The  Helpmate  41 

"Who  was  she?" 

"The  wife  of  Sir  Andrew  Cayley,  a  tallow-chandler." 

"Oh,  how  did  Walter  ever— 

"My  dear,  one  meets  all  sorts  of  funny  people  in  Scale. 
He  was  a  very  wealthy  tallow-chandler.  Besides,  it 
wasn't  he  that  Walter  did  meet,  naturally." 

"How  can  you  joke  about  it?  It  makes  me  sick  to 
think  of  it." 

"It  made  me  sick  enough  once,  dear.  But  I  don't 
think  of  it." 

"I  can't  help  thinking  of  it." 

"Well,  whenever  you  do,  when  it  does  come  over  you 
— it  will,  sometimes — think  of  what  Walter's  life  was 
before  he  knew  you.  Everything  was  spoiled  for  him 
because  of  me.  He  was  sent  to  a  place  he  detested 
because  of  me ;  put  into  an  office  which  he  loathed,  shut 
up  here  in  this  hateful  house,  because  of  me.  And  he 
was  good  to  me,  good  and  dear.  Even  at  the  worst  he 
hardly  ever  left  me  if  he  thought  I  wanted  him — not 
even  to  go  to  her.  But  he  was  young,  and  it  was  an  aw- 
ful life  for  him;  you  don't  know  hpw  awful.  It  would 
have  been  bad  enough  for  a  woman.  It  was  intolerable 
for  a  man.  I  was  worse  then  than  I  am  now.  I  was 
horribly  fretful,  and  I  worried  him.  I  think  I  drove  him 
to  her — I  know  I  did.  He  had  to  get  away  from  it  some- 
times. Won't  you  think  of  that?" 

"I'll  try  to  think  of  it." 

"And  it  won't  make  you  not  like  him?" 

"My  dear,  I  liked  him  first  for  your  sake,  then  I  liked 
you  for  his,  now  I  suppose  I  must  like  him  for  yours 
again." 

"No — for  his  own  sake." 

"Does  it  matter  which?" 


42  The  Helpmate 

"Not  much — so  long  as  you  like  him.  He  really  is 
angelic,  though  you  mayn't  think  it." 

"I  think  you  are." 

Edith  was  not  only  angelic,  but  womanly  and  full  of 
guile,  and  she  knew  with  whom  she  had  to  do.  She  had 
humbled  Anne  with  shrewd  shafts  that  hit  her  in  all  her 
weak  places ;  now  she  exalted  her.  Anne  had  not  her 
likeness  in  a  thousand.  She  was  a  woman  magnificently 
planned,  of  stature  not  to  be  diminished  by  the  highest 
pedestal.  A  figure  fit  for  a  throne,  a  niche,  a  shrine. 
Edith  could  see  the  dear  little  downy  feathers  sprouting 
on  Anne's  shoulder-blades,  and  the  infant  aureole  playing 
in  her  hair. 

"You're  a  saint,"  said  Edith. 

"I  am  not,"  said  Anne,  while  her  pale  cheek  glowed 
with  the  flattery. 

"Of  course  you  are,"  said  Edith,  "or  you  could  never 
have  put  up  with  me." 

Whereupon  Anne  kissed  her. 

"And  I  may  tell  Walter  what  you've  said?" 

It  was  thus  that  she  spared  Anne's  mortal  pride.  She 
knew  how  it  would  shrink  from  telling  him. 

Anne  went  down  to  Majendie  in  the  garden  and  sent 
him  to  his  sister.  They  returned  to  the  house  by  the 
open  window  of  his  study.  A  bright  fire  was  burning  in 
the  room.  He  looked  at  her  shyly  and  half  in  doubt, 
drew  up  an  arm-chair  to  the  hearth,  and  left  her  there. 

His  manner  brought  back  to  her  the  days  of  their  en- 
gagement when  that  room  had  been  their  refuge.  Not 
that  they  had  often  been  alone  together.  She  could 
count  the  times  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  the  times 
when  Edith  was  too  ill  to  be  wheeled  into  her  room.  It 
had  been  nearly  always  in  Edith's  room  that  she  had 


The  Helpmate  43 

seen  him,  surrounded  by  all  the  feminine  devices,  the 
tender  trivialities  that  were  part  of  the  moving  pathos  of 
the  scene.  She  had  so  associated  him  with  his  sister 
that  it  had  been  hard  for  her  to  realise  that  he  had  any 
separate  life  of  his  own.  She  felt  that  his  love  for  her 
had  simply  grown  out  of  his  love  for  Edith,  it  was  the 
flame,  the  flower  of  his  tenderness.  It  was  one  with  his 
goodness,  and  she  had  been  glad  to  have  it  so.  There 
was  no  jealousy  in  Anne. 

It  came  over  her  now  with  a  fresh  shock,  how  very 
little,  after  all,  she  had  known  of  him.  It  was  through 
Edith  that  she  really  knew  him.  And  yet  it  was  impos- 
sible that  Edith  could  have  absorbed  him  utterly.  Anne 
had  not  counted  his  business;  for  it  had  not  interested 
her,  and  to  say  that  Walter  was  a  ship-owner  did  not 
define  him  in  the  very  least.  What  remained  over  of 
Walter  was  a  secret  that  this  room,  his  study,  must  par- 
tially reveal. 

She  remembered  how  she  had  first  come  there,  and 
had  looked  shyly  about  her  for  intimations  of  his  inner 
nature,  and  how  it  was  his  pipe-rack  and  his  boots  that 
had  first  suggested  that  he  had  a  life  apart  and  dealings 
with  the  outer  world.  Now  she  rose  and  went  round 
the  room,  searching  for  its  secret,  and  finding  no  new 
impressions,  only  fresh  lights  on  the  old.  If  the  room 
told  her  anything  it  told  her  how  little  Majendie  had  used 
it,  how  little  he  had  been  able  to  call  anything  his  own. 
The  things  in  it  had  no  comfortable  look  of  service.  He 
could  not  have  smoked  there  much,  the  curtains  were  too 
innocent.  He  could  not  have  sat  in  that  arm-chair  much, 
the  surface  was  too  smooth.  He  could  not  have  come 
there  much  at  any  time,  for,  though  the  carpet  was  faded, 
there  was  no  well-worn  passage  from  the  threshold  to 


44  The  Helpmate 

the  hearth.  As  far  as  she  could  make  out  he  came  there 
for  no  earthly  purpose  but  to  change  his  boots  before 
going  upstairs  to  Edith. 

The  bookcase  told  the  same  story.  It  held  histories 
and  standard  works  inherited  from  Majendie's  father; 
the  works  of  Dickens,  and  Thackeray,  and  Hardy,  read 
over  and  over  again  in  the  days  when  he  had  time  for 
reading;  several  poets  whom,  by  his  own  confession,  he 
could  not  have  read  in  any  circumstances.  One  Mere- 
dith, partly  uncut,  testified  to  an  honest  effort  and  a 
baulked  accomplishment.  On  a  shelf  apart  stood  the 
books  that  he  had  loved  when  he  was  a  boy,  the  Annuals, 
the  tales  of  travel  and  adventure,  and  one  or  two  school 
prizes  gorgeously  bound. 

As  she  looked  at  them  his  boyhood  rose  before  her ;  its 
dead  innocence  appealed  to  her  comprehension  and  com- 
passion. 

She  knew  that  he  had  been  disappointed  in  his  am- 
bition. Instead  of  being  sent  to  Oxford  he  had  been 
sent  into  business,  that  he  might  early  support  himself. 
He  had  supported  himself.  And  he  had  stuck  to  the 
business  that  he  might  the  better  support  Edith. 

She  could  not  deny  him  the  virtue  of  unselfishness. 

She  remembered  one  Sunday,  three  weeks  before  their 
wedding-day,  when  she  had  stood  alone  with  him  in  this 
room,  at  the  closing  of  their  happy  day.  It  was  then 
that  he  had  asked  her  why  she  cared  for  him,  and  she 
had  answered:  "Because  you  are  good.  You  always 
have  been  good." 

And  he  had  said  (how  it  came  back  to  her!),  "And  if 
I  hadn't  always  ?  Wouldn't  you  have  cared  then  ?" 

She  had  answered,  "I  would  have  cared,  but  I  couldn't 
marry  you." 


The  Helpmate  45 

And  he  had  turned  away  from  her,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window,  keeping  his  back  to  her,  and  had  stood  so 
without  speaking  for  a  moment.  She  had  wondered 
what  had  come  over  him. 

Now  she  knew.  He  had  not  been  good.  And  she  had 
married  him. 

At  the  recollection  the  thoughts  she  had  quieted  stirred 
again  and  stung  her,  and  again  she  trampled  them  down. 

She  faced  the  question  how  she  was  going  to  build  up 
the  wedded  life  that  her  knowledge  of  him  had  laid  low. 
She  told  herself  that,  after  all,  much  remained.  She  had 
loved  Walter  for  his  unhappiness  as  well  as  for  his  good- 
ness. He  had  needed  her,  and  she  had  felt  that  there  was 
no  other  woman  who  could  have  borne  his  burden  half  so 
well.  Edith  was  too  sweet  to  be  thought  of  as  a  bur- 
den, but  it  could  not  be  denied  she  weighed.  In  marry- 
ing Walter  she  would  lift  half  the  weight.  Anne  was 
strong,  and  she  glorified  in  her  strength.  That  was  what 
she  was  there  for. 

How  much  more  was  she  prepared  to  do?  Keeping 
his  house  was  nothing;  Nanna  had  always  kept  it  well. 
Caring  for  Edith  was  nothing;  she  could  not  help  but 
care  for  her.  She  had  promised  Walter  that  she  would 
be  a  good  wife  to  him,  and  she  had  vowed  to  herself  that 
she  would  live  her  spiritual  life  apart. 

Was  that  being  a  good  wife  to  him?  To  divorce  her 
soul,  her  best  self,  from  him?  If  she  confined  her  duty 
to  the  preservation  of  the  mere  material  tie,  what  would 
she  make  of  herself?  Of  him? 

It  came  to  her  that  his  need  of  her  was  deeper  and 
more  spiritual  than  that.  She  argued  that  there  must 
be  something  fine  in  him,  or  he  never  would  have  appre- 
ciated her.  That  other  woman  didn't  count;  she  had 


46  The  Helpmate 

thrust  herself  on  him.  When  it  came  to  choosing,  he 
had  chosen  a  spiritual  woman!  (Anne  had  no  doubt 
that  she  was  what  she  aspired  to  be.)  And  since  all  things 
Avere  divinely  ordered,  Walter's  choice  was  really  God's 
will.  God's  hand  had  led  him  to  her. 

It  had  been  a  blow  to  Anne's  pride  to  realise  that  she 
had  married — spiritually — beneath  her.  Her  pride  now 
recovered  wonderfully,  seeing  in  this  very  inequality  its 
opportunity.  She  beheld  herself  superbly  seated  on  an 
eminence,  her  spiritual  opulence  supplying  Walter's  pov- 
erty. Spiritually,  she  said,  it  might  also  be  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive. 

Their  marriage,  in  this  its  new,  its  immaterial  con- 
summation, would  not  be  unequal.  She  would  raise 
Walter.  That,  of  course,  was  what  God  had  meant  her 
to  do  all  the  time.  Never  again  could  she  look  at  her 
husband  with  eyes  of  mortal  passion.  But  her  love, 
which  had  died,  was  risen  again;  it  could  still  turn  to 
him  a  glorified  and  spiritual  face ;  it  could  still  know  pas- 
sion, a  passion  immortal  and  supreme. 

But  it  was  an  emotion  of  which  by  its  very  nature  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  speak.  It  could  mean  nothing 
to  Walter  in  his  yet  unspiritual  state.  She  felt  that  when 
he  came  to  her  he  would  insist  on  some  satisfaction,  and 
there  was  no  satisfaction  that  she  could  give  to  the  sort 
of  claim  he  would  make.  Therefore  she  awaited  his 
coming  with  nervous  trepidation. 

He  came  in  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He  sank 
with  every  symptom  of  comfortable  assurance  into  the 
opposite  arm-chair.  And  he  asked  no  more  formidable 
question  than,  "How's  your  headache?" 

"Better,  thank  you." 

"That's  all  right." 


The  Helpmate  47 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  but  his  eyes  were  smiling  as 
if  at  some  agreeable  thought  or  reminiscence.  He  had 
apparently  assumed  that  Anne  had  recovered,  not  only 
from  her  headache,  but  from  its  cause.  To  Anne,  tin- 
gling with  the  tension  of  a  nervous  crisis,  this  attitude 
was  disconcerting.  It  seemed  to  reduce  her  and  her 
crisis  to  insignificance.  She  had  expected  him  to  be  tin- 
gling too.  He  had  more  cause  to. 

"Do  you  mind  my  smoking?     Say  if  you  really  do." 

She  really  did,  but  she  forbore  to  say  so.  Forbear- 
ance henceforth  was  to  be  part  of  her  discipline. 

He  smoked  contentedly,  with  half-closed  eyes;  and 
when  he  talked,  he  talked  of  the  garden  and  of  bulbs. 

Of  bulbs,  after  what  he  had  discussed  with  Edith  up- 
stairs. She  would  rather  that  he  had  asked  his  question, 
forced  her  to  the  issue.  That  at  least  would  have  shown 
some  comprehension  of  her  state.  But  he  had  taken  the 
issue  for  granted,  refused  to  face  the  immensity  of  it  all. 
She  had  had  her  first  taste  of  sacrificial  flames,  and  her 
spirit  was  prepared  to  go  through  fire  to  reach  him.  And 
he  presented  himself  as  already  folded  and  protected ;  sat- 
isfied with  some  inferior  and  independent  secret  of  his 
own. 

She  felt  that  a  little  perturbation  would  have  become 
him  more  than  that  impenetrable  peace. 

It  would  make  it  so  difficult  to  raise  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  bell  of  St.  Saviour's  had  ceased.  Over  the 
open  market-place  the  air  throbbed  with  a  thou- 
sand pulses  from  the  dying  heart  of  sound.  The  great 
grey  body  of  the  Church  was  still;  tower  and  couchant 
nave  watched  in  their  monstrous,  motionless  dominion, 
till  the  music  stirred  in  them  like  a  triumphant  soul. 

As  they  hurried  over  the  open  market-place,  Anne 
realised  with  some  annoyance  that  she  was  late  again 
for  the  Wednesday  evening  service.  She  dearly  loved 
punctuality  and  order,  and  disliked  to  be  either  checked 
or  hastened  in  her  superb  movements.  She  disliked  to 
be  late  for  anything.  Above  all  she  disliked  standing  on 
a  mat  outside  a  closed  church  door,  in  the  middle  of  a 
General  Confession,  trying  to  surrender  her  spirit  to  the 
spirit  of  prayer,  while  Walter  lingered,  murmuring  pro- 
fane urbanities  that  claimed  her  as  his  own. 

He  had  perceived  what  he  called  her  innocent  design, 
her  transparent  effort  to  lead  him  to  her  heavenly 
heights.  He  had  lent  himself  to  it,  tenderly,  gravely,  as 
he  would  have  lent  himself  to  a  child's  heart-rending 
play.  He  could  not  profess  to  follow  the  workings  of 
his  wife's  mind,  but  he  did  understand  her  point  of  view. 
She  had  been  "let  in"  for  something  she  had  not  ex- 
pected, and  he  was  bound  to  make  it  up  to  her. 

There  had  been  a  week  of  concessions,  crowned  by  his 
appearance  at  St.  Saviour's. 

48 


The  Helpmate  49 

But  that  was  on  a  Sunday.  This  was  Wednesday,  and 
he  drew  the  line  at  Wednesdays. 

Oh  yes,  he  saw  her  drift.  He  knew  that  what  she  ex- 
pected of  him  was  incessant  penitence.  But,  after  all, 
it  was  difficult  to  feel  much  abasement  for  a  fault  com- 
mitted quite  a  number  of  years  ago  and  sufficiently  re- 
pented of  at  the  time.  He  had  settled  his  account,  and 
it  was  hard  that  he  should  be  made  to  pay  twice  over. 
To-night  his  mood  was  strangely  out  of  harmony  with 
Lent. 

Anne  slackened  her  pace  to  intimate  as  much  to  him. 
Whereupon  he  lapsed  into  strange  and  disturbing  leg- 
ends of  his  childhood.  He  told  her  he  had  early  weaned 
himself  from  the  love  of  Lenten  Services,  observing  their 
effect  upon  the  unfortunate  lady,  his  aunt,  who  had 
brought  him  up.  Punctually  at  twelve  o'clock  on  Palm 
Sunday,  he  said,  the  poor  soul,  exhausted  with  her  en- 
deavours after  the  Christian  life,  would  fly  into  a  pas- 
sion, and  punctually  would  rise  from  it  at  the  same  hour 
on  Easter  Day.  For  quite  a  long  time  he  had  believed 
that  that  was  why  they  called  it  Passion  Week. 

She  moaned  "Oh,  Walter — don't!"  as  if  he  had  hurt 
her,  while  she  repressed  the  play  of  a  little,  creeping,  curl- 
ing, mundane  smile. 

If  he  would  only  leave  her !  But,  as  they  crossed  to 
the  curbstone,  he  changed  over,  preserving  his  proper 
place.  He  leaned  to  her  with  the  indestructible  atten- 
tion of  a  lover.  His  whole  manner  was  inimitably  chiv- 
alrous, protective,  and  polite. 

Anne  hardened  her  heart  against  him.  At  the  church 
gate  she  turned  and  faced  him  coldly. 

"If  you're  not  going  in,"  said  she,  "you  needn't  come 
any  further." 


50  The  Helpmate 

He  glanced  at  the  belated  group  of  worshippers  gath- 
ered before  the  church  door,  and  became  more  than  evei 
polite  and  chivalrous  and  protective. 

"I  must  see  you  safely  in,"  he  said,  and  took  up  his 
stand  beside  her  on  the  mat. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  him  for  a  second  in  reproach,  then 
dropped  behind  the  veil  of  their  lids.  In  another  mo- 
ment he  would  have  to  go.  He  had  already  surrendered 
her  prayer-book,  tucking  it  gently  under  her  arm. 

"You'll  be  all  right  when  you  get  in,  won't  you?"  he 
said  encouragingly. 

"Please  go,"  she  whispered. 

"Do  I  jar,  dear?"  he  asked  sweetly. 

"You  do,  very  much." 

"I'm  so  sorry.     I  won't  do  it  again." 

But  his  whispered  vows  and  promises  belied  him,  bat- 
tling with  her  consecrated  mood.  She  felt  that  his  in- 
nermost spirit  remained  in  its  profanity,  unillumined  by 
her  rebuke. 

Once  more  she  set  her  face,  and  hardened  her  heart 
against  him,  and  removed  herself  in  the  silence  and  isola- 
tion of  her  prayer. 

Through  the  closed  door  there  came  the  rich,  confused 
murmur  of  the  Confession.  He  saw  her  lips  curl,  flower- 
like,  with  emotion,  as  her  breath  rose  and  fell  in  unison 
with  the  heaving  chant.  He  watched  her  with  a  certain 
reverence,  incomprehensibly  chastened,  till  the  door 
opened,  and  she  went  from  him,  moving  down  the  lighted 
aisle  with  her  remote,  renunciating  air. 

The  door  was  shut  in  Majendie's  face,  and  he  turned 
away,  intending  to  kill,  to  murder  the  next  hour  at  his 
club. 

Anne   was   self-trained   in   the   habit   of   detachment. 


The  Helpmate  51 

She  had  only  to  kneel,  to  close  her  eyes  and  cover  her 
face,  and  her  soul  slid  of  its  own  accord  into  the  place 
of  peace.  Her  very  breathing  and  the  beating  of  her 
heart  were  stayed.  Her  mind,  emptied  in  a  moment, 
was  in  a  moment  filled,  brimming  over  with  the  thought 
of  God.  To  her  veiled  vision  that  thought  was  like  a 
sheet  of  blank  light  let  down  behind  her  drooped  eye- 
lids, and  centring  in  a  luminous  whorl.  It  fascinated 
her.  Her  prayer  shot  straight  to  the  heart  of  it,  a  com- 
munion too  swift  to  trouble  or  divide  the  blessed  light. 

In  that  instant  her  husband,  the  image  and  the  thought 
of  him,  were  cast  into  the  secular  darkness. 

She  remembered  how  difficult  it  had  once  been  thus  to 
renounce  him.  Her  trouble,  in  the  days  of  her  engage- 
ment, had  been  that,  thrust  him  from  her  as  she  would, 
the  idea  of  his  goodness — the  goodness  that  justified  her 
through  its  own  appeal — would  call  up  his  presence, 
emerging  radiant  from  the  outermost  abyss.  Inferior 
emotions  then  mingled  indistinguishably  with  her  holiest 
ardours.  Spiritually  ambitious,  she  had  had  her  young 
eye  on  a  hard-won  crown  of  glory,  and  she  had  found 
that  happiness  made  the  spiritual  life  almost  contemptibly 
easy.  It  was  no  effort  in  those  days  to  realise  divine 
mysteries,  when  the  miracle  of  the  Incarnation  was,  as 
it  were,  worked  for  her  in  her  own  soul ;  when  she  heard 
in  her  own  heart  the  beating  of  the  heart  of  God ;  when 
his  hand  touched  her  with  a  tenderness  that  warmed  her 
place  of  peace.  She  had  hardly  known  this  flamed  and 
lyric  creature  for  herself.  It  was  as  if  her  soul,  resting 
after  long  flight,  had  contemplated  for  the  first  time  the 
silver  and  fine  gold  of  her  wings. 

It  was  the  facility  of  the  revelation  that  had  first 
caused  her  to  suspect  it.  And  she  had  thrown  ashes  on 


52  The  Helpmate 

the  flame,  and  set  a  watch  upon  her  soul,  lest  she  should 
mistake  an  earthly  for  a  heavenly  content.  She  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  she  was  cheated,  that  her  pulses 
counted  in  her  sense  of  exaltation  and  beatitude.  She 
desired,  purely,  the  utmost  purity  in  that  divine  commun- 
ion, so  as  to  be  sure  that  it  was  divine. 

Now,  having  suffered,  she  was  completely  sure.  Her 
wound  was  the  seal  God  set  upon  her  soul.  It  was  easy 
enough  now  for  her  to  achieve  detachment,  oblivion  of 
Walter  Majendie,  to  pour  out  her  whole  soul  in  the 
prayer  for  light:  "Lighten  our  darkness,  we  beseech 
Thee,  O  Lord,  and  by  Thy  great  mercy  defend  us  from 
all  perils  and  dangers  of  this  night." 

Her  hands,  as  she  prayed,  were  folded  close  over  her 
eyes.  Having  annihilated  her  husband,  she  was  disa- 
greeably astonished  to  find  that  he  was  there,  that  he  had 
been  there  for  some  time,  in  the  seat  beside  her. 

He  was  sitting  in  what  he  took  to  be  an  attitude  of 
extreme  reverence,  his  head  bowed  and  resting  on  his 
left  arm,  which  was  supported  by  the  back  of  the  seat 
in  front  of  him.  His  right  arm  embraced,  unconsciously, 
Anne's  muff.  Anne  was  vividly,  painfully  aware  of  him. 
Over  the  crook  of  his  elbow  one  eye  looked  up  at  her, 
bright,  smiling  with  inextinguishable  affection.  His  lips 
gave  out  a  sound  that  was  not  a  prayer,  but  something 
between  a  murmur  and  a  moan,  distinctly  audible.  She 
felt  his  gaze  as  a  gross,  tangible  thing,  as  a  violent  hand, 
parting  the  veils  of  prayer.  She  bowed  her  head  lower 
and  pressed  her  hands  to  her  face  till  the  blood  tingled. 

The  sermon  obliged  her  to  sit  upright  and  exposed. 
It  gave  him  iniquitous  opportunity.  He  turned  in  his 
seat;  his  eyes  watched  her  under  half-closed  lids,  two 
slits  shining  through  the  thick,  dark  curtain  of  their 


The  Helpmate  53 

lashes.  He  kept  on  pulling  at  his  moustache,  as  if  to 
hide  the  dumb  but  expressive  adoration  of  his  mouth. 
Anne,  who  felt  that  her  soul  had  been  overtaken,  trapped, 
and  bared  to  the  outrage,  removed  herself  by  a  yard's 
length  till  the  hymn  brought  them  together,  linked  by 
the  book  she  could  not  withhold.  The  music  penetrated 
her  soul  and  healed  its  hurt. 

"Christian,   doth  thou  see  them, 

On  the  holy  ground, 
How  the  troops  of  Midian 
Prowl  and  prowl  around?" 

sang  Anne  in  a  dulcet  pianissimo,  obedient  to  the  choir. 
Profound  abstraction  veiled  him,  a  treacherous  un- 
spiritual  calm.  Majendie  was  a  man  with  a  baritone 
voice,  which  at  times  possessed  him  like  a  furious  devil. 
It  was  sleeping  in  him  now,  biding  its  time,  ready,  she 
knew,  to  be  roused  by  the  first  touch  of  a  crescendo. 
The  crescendo  came. 

"Christian!     Up  and  fight  them!" 

The  voice  waked;  it  leaped  from  him;  and  to  Anne's 
terrified  nerves  it  seemed  to  be  scattering  the  voices  of 
the  choir  before  it.  It  dropped  on  the  Amen  and  died ; 
but  in  dying  it  remained  triumphant,  like  the  trump  of  an 
archangel  retreating  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  heaven. 

Anne's  heart  pained  her  with  a  profane  tenderness,  and 
a  poignant  repudiation.  Her  soul  being  once  more  ad- 
justed to  the  divine,  it  was  intolerable  to  think  that  this 
preposterous  human  voice  should  have  power  to  shake 
it  so. 

She  sank  to  her  knees  and  bowed  her  head  to  the 
Benediction. 


54  The  Helpmate 

"Did  you  like  it?"  he  asked  as  they  emerged  together 
into  the  open  air. 

He  spoke  as  if  to  the  child  she  seemed  to  him  now 
to  be.  They  had  been  playing  together,  pretending  they 
were  two  pilgrims  bound  for  the  Heavenly  City,  and 
he  wanted  to  know  if  she  had  had  a  nice  game.  He 
nursed  the  exquisite  illusion  that  this  time  he  had  pleased 
her  by  playing  too. 

"Of  course  I  liked  it." 

"So  did  I,"  he  answered  joyously,  "I  quite  enjoyed  it. 
We'll  do  it  again  some  other  night." 

"What  made  you  come,  like  that?"  said  she,  appeased 
by  his  innocence. 

"I  couldn't  help  it.  You  looked  so  pretty,  dear,  and  so 
forlorn.  It  seemed  brutal,  somehow,  to  abandon  you  on 
the  weary  road  to  heaven." 

She  sighed.  That  was  his  chivalry  again.  He  would 
escort  her  politely  to  the  door  of  heaven,  but  would  he 
ever  go  in  with  her,  would  he  ever  stay  there  ? 

Still,  it  was  something  that  he  should  have  gone  with 
her  so  far.  It  gave  her  confidence  and  an  idea  of  what 
her  power  might  come  to  be.  Not  that  she  relied  upon 
herself  alone.  Her  plan  for  Majendie's  salvation  was 
liberal  and  large,  it  admitted  of  other  methods,  other  in- 
fluences. There  was  no  narrowness,  any  more  than 
there  was  jealousy,  in  Anne. 

"Walter,"  said  she,  "I  want  you  to  know  Mrs.  Eliott." 

"But  I  do  know  her,  don't  I?" 

He  called  up  a  vision  of  the  lady  whose  house  had 
been  Anne's  home  in  Scale.  He  was  grateful  to  Mrs. 
Eliott.  But  for  her  slender  acquaintance  with  his  sis- 
ter, he  would  never  have  known  Anne.  This  made  him 
feel  that  he  knew  Mrs.  Eliott. 


The  Helpmate  55 

"But  I  want  you  to  know  her  as  I  know  her." 

He  laughed.  "Is  that  possible?  Does  a  man  ever 
know  a  woman  as  another  woman  knows  her?" 

Anne  felt  that  she  was  not  only  being  diverted  from 
her  purpose,  but  led  by  a  side  tract  to  an  unexplored 
profundity.  On  the  further  side  of  it  she  discerned, 
dimly,  the  undesirable.  It  was  a  murky  region,  haunted 
by  still  murkier  presences,  by  Lady  Cayley  and  her  kind. 
She  persisted  with  a  magnificent  irrelevance. 

"You  must  know  her.     You  would  like  her." 

He  didn't  in  the  least  want  to  know  Mrs.  Eliott,  he 
didn't  think  that  he  would  like  her.  But  he  was  soothed, 
flattered,  insanely  pleased  with  Anne's  assumption  that 
he  would.  It  was  as  if  in  her  thoughts  she  were  draw- 
ing him  towards  her.  He  felt  that  she  was  softening, 
yielding.  His  approaches  were  a  delicious  wooing  of  an 
unfamiliar,  unwedded  Anne. 

"I  would  like  her,  because  you  like  her,  is  that  it?" 

"It  wouldn't  follow." 

"Oh,  how  you  spoil  it!" 

"Spoil  what?" 

"My  inference.  It  pleased  me.  But,  as  you  say,  the 
logic  wasn't  sound." 

Silence  being  the  only  dignified  course  under  mystifi- 
cation, Anne  was  silent.  Some  men  had  that  irritating 
way  with  women ;  Walter's  smile  suggested  that  he  might 
have  it.  She  was  not  going  to  minister  to  his  male  de- 
light. Unfortunately  her  silence  seemed  to  please  him 
too. 

"Never  mind,  dear,  I  do  like  her;  because  she  likes 
you." 

"You  will  like  her  for  herself  when  you  know  her." 

"Will  she  like  me  for  myself  when  she  knows  me  ?     It's 


56  The  Helpmate 

extremely  doubtful.  You  see,  hitherto  she  has  made  no 
ardent  sign." 

"My  dear,  she  says  you've  never  been  near  her. 
You've  never  come  to  one  of  her  Thursdays." 

"Oh,  her  Thursdays — no,  I  haven't." 

"Well,  how  can  you  expect — but  you'll  go  sometimes, 
now,  to  please  me?" 

"Won't  Wednesdays  do?" 

"Wednesdays?" 

"Yes.  It  wasn't  half  bad  to-night.  I'll  go  to  every 
blessed  Wednesday,  as  long  as  they  last,  if  you'll  only 
let  me  off  Thursdays." 

"Please  don't  talk  about  being  'let  off.'  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  know  my  friends,  that's  all." 

"So  I  would.  I'd  like  it  awfully.  By  the  way,  that 
reminds  me.  I  met  Hannay  at  the  club  to-night,  and  he 
asked  if  his  wife  might  call  on  you.  Would  you  mind 
very  much?" 

"Why  should  I  mind,  if  she's  a  friend  of  yours  and 
Edith's?" 

"Oh  well,  you  see,  she  isn't  exactly " 

"Isn't  exactly  what?" 

"A  friend  of  Edith's." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THERE  is  a  polite  and  ancient  rivalry  between  Prior 
Street  and  Thurston  Square,  a  rivalry  that  dates 
from  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  Prior 
Street  and  Thurston  Square  were  young.  Each  claims 
to  be  the  aristocratic  centre  of  the  town.  Each  acknowl- 
edges the  other  as  its  solitary  peer.  If  Prior  Street  were 
not  Prior  Street  it  would  be  Thurston  Square.  There 
are  a  few  old  families  left  in  Scale.  They  inhabit  either 
Thurston  Square  or  Prior  Street.  There  is  nowhere  else 
that  they  could  live  with  any  dignity  or  comfort.  In 
either  place  they  are  secure  from  the  contamination  of 
low  persons  engaged  in  business,  and  from  the  wide  in- 
vading foot  of  the  newly  rich.  These  build  themselves 
mansions  after  their  kind  in  the  Park,  or  in  the  broad 
flat  highways  leading  into  the  suburbs.  They  have  no 
sense  for  the  dim  undecorated  charm  of  Prior  Street  and 
Thurston  Square. 

Nothing  could  be  more  distinguished  than  Prior 
Street,  with  its  sombre  symmetry,  its  air  of  delicate  early 
Georgian  reticence.  But  its  atmosphere  is  a  shade  too 
professional ;  it  opens  too  precipitately  on  the  unlovely 
and  unsacred  street. 

Thurston  Square  is  approached  only  by  unfrequented 
ancient  ways  paved  with  cobble  stones.  It  is  a  place  of 
garden  greenness,  of  seclusion  and  of  leisure.  It 
breathes  a  provincial  quietness,  a  measured,  hallowed 
breath  as  of  a  cathedral  close.  Its  inhabitants  pride 

57 


58  The  Helpmate 

themselves  on  this  immemorial  calm.  The  older  fami- 
lies rely  on  it  for  the  sustenance  of  their  patrician  state. 
They  sit  by  their  firesides  in  dignified  attitudes,  impress- 
ively, luxuriously  inert.  Their  whole  being  is  a  religious 
protest  against  the  spirit  of  business. 

But  the  restlessness  of  the  times  has  seized  upon  the 
other  families,  the  Pooleys,  the  Gardners,  the  Eliotts, 
younger  by  a  century  at  least.  They  utilise  the  perfect 
peace  for  the  cultivation  of  their  intellects. 

Every  Thursday,  towards  half-past  three,  a  wave  of 
agreeable  expectation,  punctual,  periodic,  mounts  on 
the  stillness  and  stirs  it.  Thursday  is  Mrs.  Eliott's 
day. 

The  Eliotts  belong  to  the  old  high  merchant-families, 
the  aristocracy  of  trade,  whose  wealth  is  mellowed  and 
beautified  by  time.  Three  centuries  met  in  Mrs.  Eliott's 
drawing-room,  harmonised  by  the  gentle  spirit  of  the 
place.  Her  frail  modern  figure  moved  (with  elegance 
a  little  dishevelled  by  abstraction)  on  an  early  Georgian 
background,  among  mid-Victorian  furniture,  surrounded 
by  a  multitude  of  decorative  objects.  There  were  great 
jars  and  idols  from  China  and  Japan ;  inlaid  tables ; 
screens  and  cabinets  and  chairs  in  Bombay  black  wood, 
curiously  carved;  a  splendid  profusion  of  painted  and 
embroidered  cloths;  the  spoils  of  seventy  years  of  East- 
ern trade.  And  on  the  top  of  it  all,  twenty  years  or  so 
of  recent  culture.  The  culture  was  represented  by  a  well- 
filled  bookcase,  a  few  diminished  copies  of  antique  sculp- 
ture, some  modern  sketches  made  in  Rome  and  Venice 
(for  the  Eliotts  had  travelled),  and  an  illuminated  trip- 
tych with  its  saints  in  glory. 

Here,  Thursday  after  Thursday,  the  same  people  met 
each  other ;  they  met,  Thursday  after  Thursday,  the  same 


The  Helpmate  59 

fervid  little  company  of  ideas,  of  aspirations  and  enthu- 
siasms. 

It  was  five  o'clock  on  one  of  her  Thursdays,  and  Mrs. 
Eliott  had  been  conversing  with  great  sweetness  and  flu- 
ency ever  since  half-past  three.  That  was  the  way  she 
and  Mrs.  Pooley  kept  it  up,  and  they  could  have  kept 
it  up  much  longer  but  for  the  arrival  of  Miss  Proctor. 
There  was  nothing,  in  Miss  Proctor's  opinion  (if  dear 
Fanny  only  knew  it),  so  provincial  as  an  enthusiasm. 
As  for  aspirations  (and  Mrs.  Pooley  was  full  of  them) 
what  could  be  more  provincial  than  these  efforts  to  be 
what  you  were  not  ?  Miss  Proctor  disapproved  of  Thurs- 
ton  Square's  preoccupation  with  its  intellect,  a  thing  no 
well-bred  person  is  ever  conscious  of.  She  announced  that 
she  had  come  to  take  dear  Fanny  down  from  her  clouds 
and  humanise  her  by  a  little  gossip.  She  ignored  Mrs. 
Pooley,  since  Mrs.  Pooley  apparently  wished  to  be  ig- 
nored. 

"I  want,"  said  she,  "the  latest  news  of  Anne." 
"If  you  wait,  you  may  get  it  from  herself." 
"My  dear,  do  you  suppose  she'd  give  it  me?" 
"It  depends,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  "on  what  you  want  to 
know." 

"I  want  to  know  whether  she's  happy.     I  want  to  know 
whether,  by  this  time,  she  knows." 
"You  can't  ask  her." 

"Of  course  I  can't.     That's  why  I'm  asking  you." 
"I  know  nothing.     I've  hardly  seen  her." 
Miss  Proctor  looked  as  if  she  were  seeing  her  that  mo- 
ment without  Fanny  Eliott's  help. 
"Poor  dear  Anne." 

Anne  Fletcher  had  been  simply  dear  Anne,  Mrs.  Wal- 
ter Majendie  was  poor  dear  Anne. 


60  The  Helpmate 

Her  friends  were  all  sorry  for  her.  They  were  inclined 
to  be  indignant  with  Edith  Majendie,  who,  they  declared, 
had  been  at  the  bottom  of  her  marriage  all  along.  She 
was  the  cause  of  Anne's  original  callings  in  Prior  Street. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  Edith,  Anne  could  never  have  pene- 
trated that  secret  bachelor  abode.  The  engagement  had 
been  an  awkward,  unsatisfactory,  sinister  affair.  It  was 
a  pity  that  Mr.  Majendie's  domestic  circumstances  were 
such  that  poor  dear  Anne  appeared  as  having  made  all 
the  necessary  approaches  and  advances.  If  Mr.  Majen- 
die had  had  a  family  that  family  would  have  had  to  call 
on  Anne.  But  Mr.  Majendie  hadn't  a  family,  he  had 
only  Edith,  which  was  worse  than  having  nobody  at  all. 
And  then,  besides,  there  was  his  history. 

Mrs.  Eliott  looked  distressed.  Mr.  Majendie's  history 
could  not  be  explained  away  as  too  ancient  to  be  inter- 
esting. In  Scale  a  seven-year-old  event  is  still  star- 
tlingly,  unforgetably  modern.  Anne's  marriage  had  sad- 
dled her  friends  with  a  difficult  responsibility,  the  justifi- 
cation of  Anne  for  that  astounding  step. 

Acquaintances  had  been  made  to  understand  that  Mrs. 
Eliott  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  They  went  away 
baffled,  but  confirmed  in  their  impression  that  she  knew ; 
which  was,  after  all,  what  they  wanted  to  know. 

It  was  not  so  easy  to  satisfy  the  licensed  curiosity  of 
Anne's  friends.  They  came  to-day  in  quantities,  at- 
tracted by  the  news  of  the  Majendies'  premature  return 
from  their  honeymoon.  Mrs.  Eliott  felt  that  Miss  Proc- 
tor and  the  Gardners  were  sitting  on  in  the  hope  of  meet- 
ing them. 

Mrs.  Eliott  had  been  obliged  to  accept  Anne's  husband, 
that  she  might  retain  Anne's  affection.  In  this  she  did 
violence  to  her  feelings,  which  were  sore  on  the  subject 


The  Helpmate  61 

of  the  marriage.  It  was  not  only  on  account  of  the  in- 
glorious clouds  he  trailed.  In  any  case  she  would  have 
felt  it  as  a  slight  that  her  friend  should  have  married 
without  her  assistance,  and  so  far  outside  the  charmed 
circle  of  Thurston  Square.  She  herself  was  for  the  mo- 
ment disappointed  with  Anne.  Anne  had  once  taken 
them  all  so  seriously.  It  was  her  solemn  joy  in  Mrs. 
Eliott  and  her  circle  that  had  enabled  her  young  superior- 
ity to  put  up  so  long  with  the  provincial  hospitalities  of 
Scale  on  Humber.  They,  the  slender  aristocracy  of 
Thurston  Square,  were  the  best  that  Scale  had  to  offer 
her,  and  they  had  given  her  of  their  best.  Socially,  the 
step  from  Thurston  Square  to  Prior  Street  could  not  be 
defined  as  a  going  down ;  but,  intellectually,  it  was  a 
decline,  and  morally  (to  those  who  knew  Fanny  Eliott 
and  to  Fanny  Eliott  who  knezv)  it  was,  by  comparison, 
a  plunge  into  the  abyss.  Fanny  Eliott  was  the  fine 
flower  of  Thurston  Square.  She  had  satisfied  even  the 
fastidiousness  of  Anne. 

She  owned  that  Mr.  Majendie  had  satisfied  it  too.  It 
was  not  that  quality  in  Anne  that  made  her  choice  so — 
well,  so  incomprehensible. 

It  was  Dr.  Gardner's  word.  Dr.  Gardner  was  the 
President  of  the  Scale  Literary  and  Philosophic  Society, 
and  in  any  discussion  of  the  incomprehensible  his  word 
had  weight.  Vagueness  was  his  foible,  the  relaxation  of 
an  intellect  uncomfortably  keen.  The  spirit  that  looked 
at  you  through  his  short-sighted  eyes  (magnified  by 
enormous  glasses)  seemed  to  have  just  returned  from  a 
solitary  excursion  in  a  dream.  In  that  mood  the  incom- 
prehensible had  for  him  a  certain  charm. 

Mrs.  Eliott  had  too  much  good  taste  to  criticise  Anne 
Majendie's.  They  had  simply  got  to  recognise  that 


62  The  Helpmate 

Prior  Street  had  more  to  offer  her  than  Thurston  Square. 
That  was  the  way  she  preferred  to  put  it,  effacing  her- 
self a  little  ostentatiously. 

Miss  Proctor  maintained  that  Prior  Street  had  nothing 
to  offer  a  creature  of  Anne  Fletcher's  kind.  It  had  ev- 
erything to  take,  and  it  seemed  bent  on  taking  everything. 
It  was  bad  enough  in  the  beginning,  when  she  had  given 
herself  up,  body  and  soul,  to  the  spinal  lady;  but  to  go 
and  marry  the  brother,  without  first  disposing  of  the 
spinal  lady  in  a  comfortable  home  for  spines,  why,  what 
must  the  man  be  like  who  could  let  her  do  it? 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  "he's  a  saint,  if  you're  to 
believe  Anne." 

Even  Dr.  Gardner  smiled.  "I  can't  say  that's  exactly 
what  I  should  call  him." 

"Need  we,"  said  Mr.  Eliott,  "call  him  anything?  So 
long  as  she  thinks  him  a  saint " 

Mr.  Eliott — Mr.  Johnson  Eliott — hovered  on  the  bor- 
derland of  culture,  with  a  spirit  purified  from  commerce 
by  a  Platonic  passion  for  the  exact  sciences.  He  was, 
therefore,  received  in  Thurston  Square  on  his  own  as 
well  as  his  wife's  merits.  He  too  had  his  little  weak- 
nesses. Almost  savagely  determined  in  matters  of  busi- 
ness, at  home  he  liked  to  sit  in  a  chair  and  fondle  the  illu- 
sion of  indifference.  There  was  no  part  of  Mr.  Eliott 's 
mental  furniture  that  was  not  a  fixture,  yet  he  scorned 
the  imputation  of  conviction.  A  hunted  thing  in  his 
wife's  drawing-room,  Mr.  Eliott  had  developed  in  a 
quite  remarkable  degree  the  protective  colouring  of 
stupidity. 

"How  can  she?"  said  Miss  Proctor.  "She's  a  saint 
herself,  and  she  ought  to  know  the  difference." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Dr.  Gardner,  "that's  why  she  doesn't." 


The  Helpmate  63 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  "it  was  the  original  at- 
traction. There  could  be  no  other  for  Anne." 

"The  attraction  was  the  opportunity  for  self-sacrifice. 
Whatever  she's  makes  of  Mr.  Majendie,  she's  bent  on 
making  a  martyr  of  herself."  Miss  Proctor  met  the 
vague  eyes  of  her  circle  with  a  glance  that  was  defiance 
to  all  mystery.  "It's  quite  simple.  This  marriage  is  a 
short  cut  to  canonisation,  that's  all." 

Then  it  was  that  little  Mrs.  Gardner  spoke.  She  had 
been  married  for  a  year,  and  her  face  still  wore  its 
bridal  look  of  possession  that  was  peace,  the  look  that  it 
would  wear  when  Mrs.  Gardner  was  seventy.  Her  voice 
had  a  certain  lucid  and  profound  precision. 

"Anne  was  always  certain  of  herself.  And  since  she 
cares  for  Mr.  Majendie  enough  to  accept  him  and  to 
accept  his  sister,  and  the  rather  triste  life  which  is  all 
he  has  to  offer  her,  doesn't  it  look  as  if,  probably,  she 
knew  her  own  business  best?" 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Eliott  firmly,  "we  may  take  it  that 
she  does." 

Miss  Proctor's  departure  was  felt  as  a  great  liberation 
of  the  intellect. 

Mrs.  Pooley  sat  up  in  her  corner  and  revived  the  con- 
versation interrupted  by  Miss  Proctor.  Mrs.  Pooley  had 
felt  that  to  talk  about  Mrs.  Majendie  was  to  waste  Mrs. 
Eliott.  Mrs.  Majendie  apart,  Mrs.  Pooley  had  many 
ideas  in  common  with  her  friend;  but,  whereas  Mrs. 
Eliott  would  spend  superbly  on  one  idea  at  a  time,  Mrs. 
Pooley's  intellect  entertained  promiscuously  and  beyond 
its  means.  It  was  inclined  to  be  hospitable  to  ideas  that 
had  never  met  outside  it,  whose  encounter  was  a  little 
distressing  to  everybody  concerned.  Whenever  this  hap- 
pened Mrs.  Pooley  would  appeal  to  Mr.  Eliott,  and  Mr. 


64  The  Helpmate 

Eliott  would  say,  "Don't  ask  me.  I'm  a  stupid  fellow. 
Don't  ask  me  to  decide  anything." 

Thus  did  Mr.  Eliott  wilfully  obscure  himself. 

To-day  he  was  more  impregnably  concealed  than  ever. 
He  hadn't  any  opinions  of  his  own.  They  were  too  ex- 
pensive. He  borrowed  other  people's  when  he  wanted 
them.  "But,"  said  Mr.  Eliott,  "it  is  very  seldom  that  I 
do  want  an  opinion.  If  you  have  any  facts  to  give  me 
— well  and  good."  For  he  knew  that,  at  the  mention 
of  facts,  Mrs.  Pooley's  intellect  would  retreat  behind  a 
cloud  and  that  his  wife  would  pursue  it  there. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  "there's  such  a  thing  as 
realising  your  ideals." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  and  wandered  and  rested  upon  Mrs. 
Gardner.  Mrs.  Gardner  had  a  singularly  beautiful  in- 
tellect which  she  was  known  to  be  shy  of  displaying. 
People  said  that  Dr.  Gardner  had  fallen  in  love  with  it 
years  ago,  and  had  only  waited  for  it  to  mature  before 
he  married  it.  Mrs.  Gardner  had  a  habit  of  sitting  apart 
from  the  discussion  and  untroubled  by  it,  tolerant  in  her 
own  excess  of  bliss.  It  irritated  Mrs.  Eliott,  on  her 
Thursdays,  to  think  of  the  distinguished  ideas  that  Mrs. 
Gardner  might  have  introduced  and  didn't.  She  felt 
Mrs.  Gardner's  silence  as  a  challenge. 

"I  wonder"  (Mrs.  Eliott  was  always  wondering) 
"what  becomes  of  our  ideals  when  we've  realised  them." 

The  doctor  answered.  "My  dear  lady,  they  cease  to 
be  ideals,  and  we  have  to  get  some  more." 

Mrs.  Eliott,  in  her  turn,  was  received  into  the  cloud. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Pooley,  emerging  from  it  joy- 
ously, "we  must  have  them." 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott  vaguely,  as  her  spirit 
struggled  with  the  cloud. 


The  Helpmate  65 

"Of  course,"  said  Dr.  Gardner.  He  was  careful  to  ar- 
ray himself  for  tea-parties  in  all  his  innocent  metaphysi- 
cal vanities,  to  scatter  profundities  like  epigrams,  to  flat- 
ter the  pure  intellects  of  ladies,  while  the  solemn  vague- 
ness of  his  manner  concealed  from  them  the  innermost 
frivolity  of  his  thought.  He  didn't  care  whether  they 
understood  him  or  not.  He  knew  his  wife  did.  Her 
wedded  spirit  moved  in  secret  and  unsuspected  harmony 
with  his. 

He  had  a  certain  liking  for  Mrs.  Eliott.  She  seemed 
to  him  an  apparition  mainly  pathetic.  With  her  attenu- 
ated distinction,  her  hectic  ardour,  her  brilliant  and  pur- 
suing eye,  she  had  the  air  of  some  doomed  and  dedicated 
votress  of  the  pure  intellect,  haggard,  disturbing  and  dis- 
turbed. His  social  self  was  amused  with  her  enthusi- 
asms, but  the  real  Dr.  Gardner  accounted  for  them  com- 
passionately. It  was  no  wonder,  he  considered,  that  poor 
Mrs.  Eliott  wondered.  She  had  so  little  else  to  do.  Her 
nursery  upstairs  was  empty,  it  always  had  been,  always 
would  be  empty.  Did  she  wonder  at  that  too,  at  the 
transcendental  carelessness  that  had  left  her  thus  frus- 
trated, thus  incomplete?  Mrs.  Eliott  would  have  been 
scandalised  if  she  had  known  the  real  Dr.  Gardner's  opin- 
ion of  her. 

"I  wonder,"  said  she,  "what  will  become  of  Anne's 
ideal.," 

"It's  safe,"  said  the  doctor.     "She  hasn't  realised  it." 

"I  wonder,  then,  what  will  become  of  Anne." 

Mrs.  Pooley  retreated  altogether  before  this  gross  ap- 
plication of  transcendent  truth.  She  had  not  come  to 
Mrs.  Eliott's  to  talk  about  Mrs.  Majendie. 

Dr.  Gardner  smiled.  "Oh,  come,"  he  said,  "you  are 
personal." 


66  The  Helpmate 

"I'm  not,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  conscious  of  her  lapse  and 
ashamed  of  it.  "But,  after  all,  Anne's  my  friend.  I 
know  people  blamed  me  because  I  never  told  her.  How 
could  I  tell  her?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs..  Gardner  soothingly,  "how  could  you  ?" 

"Anne,"  continued  Mrs.  Eliott,  "was  so  reticent.  The 
thing  was  all  settled  before  anybody  could  say  a  word." 

"Well,"  said  Dr.  Gardner,  "there's  no  good  worrying 
about  it  now." 

"Isn't  it  possible,"  said  the  little  year-old  bride,  "that 
Mr.  Majendie  may  have  told  her  himself?" 

For  Dr.  Gardner  had  told  her  everything  the  day  be- 
fore he  married  her,  confessing  to  the  light  loves  of  his 
youth,  the  young  lady  in  the  Free  Library  and  all.  She 
looked  round  with  eyes  widened  by  their  angelic  can- 
dour. Even  more  beautiful  than  Mrs.  Gardner's  intel- 
lect were  Mrs.  Gardner's  eyes,  and  the  love  of  them 
that  brought  the  doctor's  home  from  their  wanderings  in 
philosophic  dream.  Nobody  but  Dr.  Gardner  knew  that 
Mrs.  Gardner's  intellect  had  cause  to  be  jealous  of  her 
eyes. 

"There's  one  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  suddenly  en- 
lightened. "Our  not  having  said  anything  at  the  time 
makes  it  easier  for  us  to  receive  him  now." 

"Aren't  we  all  talking,"  said  Mrs.  Gardner,  "rather 
as  if  Anne  had  married  a  monster?  After  all,  have  we 
ever  heard  anything  against  him — except  Lady  Cayley  ?" 

"Oh  no,  never  a  word,  have  we,  Johnson  dear?" 

"Never.     He's  not  half  a  bad  fellow,  Majendie." 

Dr.  Gardner  rose  to  go. 

"Oh,  please — don't  go  before  they  come." 

Mrs.  Gardner  hesitated,  but  the  doctor,  vague  in  his  ap- 
proaches, displayed  a  certain  energy  in  his  departure. 


The  Helpmate  67 

They  passed  Mrs.  Walter  Majendie  on  the  stairs. 

She  had  come  alone.  That,  Mrs.  Eliott  felt,  was  a 
bad  beginning.  She  could  see  that  it  struck  even  John- 
son's obtuseness  as  unfavourable,  for  he  presently  effaced 
himself. 

"Fanny,"  said  Anne,  holding  her  friend's  evasive  eye 
with  the  determination  of  her  query,  "tell  me,  who  are 
the  Ransomes?" 

"The  Ransomes?     Have  they  called?" 

"Yes,  but  I  was  out.     I  didn't  see  them." 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  in  a  tone  which  im- 
plied that  when  Anne  did  see  them 

"Are  they  very  dreadful?" 

"Well — they're  not  your  sort." 

Anne  meditated.  "Not — my — sort.  And  the  Lawson 
Hannays,  what  sort  are  they?" 

"Well,  we  don't  know  them.  But  there  are  a  great 
many  people  in  Scale  one  doesn't  know." 

"Are  they  socially  impossible,  or  what?" 

"Oh — socially,  they  would  be  considered — in  Scale — 
all  right.  But  he  is,  or  was,  mixed  up  with  some  very 
queer  people." 

Anne's  cold  face  intimated  that  the  adjective  suggested 
nothing  to  her.  Mrs.  Eliott  was  compelled  to  be  explicit. 
The  word  queer  was  applied  in  Scale  to  persons  of 
dubious  honesty  in  business ;  whereas  it  was  not  so  much 
in  business  as  in  pleasure  that  Mr.  Lawson  Hannay  had 
been  queer. 

"Mr.  Hannay  may  be  very  steady  now,  but  I  believe 
he  belonged  to  a  very  fast  set  before  he  married 
her." 

"And  she?     Is  she  nice?" 

"She  may  be  very  nice  for  all  I  know." 


68  The  Helpmate 

"I  think,"  said  Anne,  "she  wouldn't  call  if  she  wasn't 
nice,  you  know." 

She  meant  that  if  Mrs.  Lawson  Hannay  hadn't  been 
nice  Walter  would  never  have  sanctioned  her  calling. 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  her  friend,  "you  know  what 
Scale  is.  The  less  nice  they  are  the  more  they  keep  on 
calling.  But  I  should  think" — she  had  suddenly  per- 
ceived where  Anne's  argument  was  tending — "she  is 
probably  all  right." 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  Mr.  Charlie  Gorst  ?" 

"No.  But  Johnson  does.  At  least  I'm  sure  he's  met 
him." 

Mrs.  Eliott  saw  it  all.  Poor  Anne  was  being  besieged, 
bombarded  by  her  husband's  set. 

"Then  he  isn't  impossible?" 

"Oh  no,  the  Gorsts  are  a  very  old  Lincolnshire  family. 
Quite  grand.  What  a  number  of  people  you're  going 
to  know,  my  dear.  But,  your  husband  isn't  to  take  you 
away  from  all  your  old  friends." 

"He  isn't  taking  me  anywhere.  I  shall  stay,"  said 
Anne  proudly,  "exactly  where  I  was  before." 

She  was  determined  that  her  old  friends  should 
never  know  to  what  a  sorrowful  place  she  had  been 
taken. 

"You  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  holding  out  a  suddenly 
caressing  hand. 

Anne  trembled  a  little  under  the  caress.  "Fanny,"  said 
she,  "I  want  you  to  know  him." 

"I  mean  to,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott  hurriedly. 

"And  I  want  him,  even  more,  to  know  you." 

"Then,"  Mrs.  Elliot  argued  to  herself,  "she  knows 
nothing ;  or  she  never  could  suppose  we  would  be  kindred 
spirits." 


The  Helpmate  69 

But  she  carried  it  off  triumphantly.  "Well,"  said  she, 
"I  hope  you're  free  for  the  fifteenth  ?" 

"The  fifteenth?" 

"Yes,  or  any  other  evening.  We  want  to  give  a  little 
dinner,  dear,  to  you  and  to  your  husband — for  him  to 
meet  all  your  friends." 

Anne  tried  not  to  look  too  grateful. 

The  upward  way,  then,  was  being  prepared  for  him. 
Beneficent  intelligences  were  at  work,  influences  were 
in  the  air,  helping  her  to  raise  him. 

In  her  gladness  she  had  failed  to  see  that,  considering 
the  very  obvious  nature  of  the  civility,  Fanny  Eliott  was 
making  the  least  shade  too  much  of  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ANNE   presented  herself   that   evening  in   her  hus- 
band's  study  with   a   sheaf   of  visiting  cards   in 
her  hand.     She  thought  it  possible  that  she  might  obtain 
further  illumination  by  confronting  him  with  them. 

"Walter,"  said  she,  "all  these  people  have  called  on 
us.     What  do  you  think  I'd  better  do?" 

"I  think  you'll  have  to  call  on  them  some  day." 

"All  of  them?" 

He  took  the   cards   from   her   and   glanced   through 
them. 

"Let  me  see.     Charlie  Gorst — we  must  be  nice  to  him." 

"Is  he  nice?" 

"I  think  so.     Edie's  very  fond  of  him." 

"And  Mrs.  Lawson  Hannay?" 

"Oh,  you  must  call  on  her." 

"Shall  I  like  her." 

"Possibly.      You    needn't    see    much    of   her   if    you 
don't." 

"Is  it  easy  to  drop  people?" 

"Perfectly." 

"And  what  about  Mrs.  Ransome  ?" 

He  frowned.     "Has  she  called?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  find  out  when  she's  not  at  home  and  let  you  know. 
You  can  call  then." 

A  fourth  card  he  tore  up  and  threw  into  the  fire. 

70 


The  Helpmate  71 

"Some  people   have   confounded  impudence." 

Anne  went  away  confirmed  in  her  impression  that  Wal- 
ter had  a  large  acquaintance  to  whom  he  was  by  no 
means  anxious  to  introduce  his  wife.  He  might,  she 
reflected,  have  incurred  the  connection  through  the  mis- 
fortune of  his  business.  The  life  of  a  ship-owner  in 
Scale  was  fruitful  in  these  embarrassments. 

But  if  these  disagreeable  people  indeed  belonged  to  the 
period  she  mentally  referred  to  as  his  "past,"  she  was 
not  going  to  tolerate  them  for  an  instant.  He  must  give 
them  up. 

She  judged  that  he  was  prepared  for  so  much  renun- 
ciation. She  hoped  that  he  would,  in  time,  adopt  her 
friends  in  place  of  them:  He  was  inclined,  after  all,  to 
respond  amicably  to  Mrs.  Eliott's  overtures. 

Anne  wondered  how  he  would  comport  himself  at  the 
dinner  on  the  fifteenth.  She  owned  to  a  little  uneasiness 
at  the  prospect.  Would  he  indeed  yield  to  the  sobering 
influence  of  Thurston  Square?  Or  would  he  try  to  im- 
pose his  alien,  his  startling  personality  on  it?  She  had 
begun  to  realise  how  alien  he  was,  how  startling  he  could 
be.  Would  he  sit  silent,  uninspiring  and  uninspired? 
Or  would  unholy  and  untimely  inspirations  seize  him? 
Would  he  scatter  to  the  winds  all  conversational  con- 
ventions, and  riot  in  his  own  unintelligible  frivolity? 
What  would  he  say  to  Mrs.  Eliott,  that  priestess  of  the 
pure  intellect?  Was  there  anything  in  him  that  could 
be  touched  by  her  uncoloured,  immaterial  charm? 
Would  he  see  that  Mr.  Eliott's  density  was  only  a  mask  ? 
Would  the  Gardners  bore  him  ?  And  would  he  like  Miss 
Proctor?  And  if  he  didn't,  would  he  show  it,  and  how? 
His  mere  manners  would,  she  knew,  be  irreproachable, 
but  she  had  no  security  for  his  spiritual  behaviour.  He 


72  The  Helpmate 

impressed  her  as  a  creature  uncaught,  undriven;  grace- 
ful, but  immeasurably  capricious. 

The  event  surprised  her. 

For  the  first  five  minutes  or  so,  it  seemed  that  Mrs. 
Eliott  and  her  dinner  were  doomed  to  failure ;  so  terrible 
a  cloud  had  fallen  on  her,  and  on  her  husband,  and  on 
every  guest.  Never  had  the  poor  priestess  appeared  so 
abstract  an  essence,  so  dream-driven  and  so  forlorn. 
Never  had  Mr.  Eliott  worn  his  mask  to  so  extinguishing 
a  purpose.  Never  had  Miss  Proctor  been  so  obtrusively 
superior,  Mrs.  Gardner  so  silent,  Dr.  Gardner  so  vague. 
They  were  all,  she  could  see,  possessed,  crushed  down 
by  their  consciousness  of  Majendie  and  his  monstrous 
past. 

Into  this  circle,  thus  stupefied  by  his  presence,  Majen- 
die burst  with  the  courage  of  unconsciousness. 

Mr.  Eliott  had  started  a  topic,  the  conduct  of  Sir  Rig- 
ley  Barker,  the  ex-member  for  Scale.  A  heavy  ball  of 
conversation  began  to  roll  slowly  up  and  down  the  table, 
between  Mr.  Eliott  and  Dr.  Gardner.  Majendie 
snatched  at  it  deftly  as  it  passed  him,  caught  it,  turned 
it  in  his  hands  till  it  grew  golden  under  his  touch.  Mr. 
Eliott  thought  there  wasn't  much  in  poor  Sir  Rigley. 

"Not  much  in  him?"  said  Majendie.  "How  about 
that  immortal  speech  of  his  ?" 

"Immortal "  echoed  Mr.  Eliott  dubiously. 

"Indestructible!  The  poor  fellow  couldn't  end  it.  It 
simply  coiled  and  uncoiled  itself  and  went  off,  in  great 
loops,  into  eternity.  It  began  in  all  innocence — natu- 
rally, as  it  was  his  maiden  speech — when  he  rose,  don't 
you  know,  to  propose  an  amendment.  I  take  it  that 
speech  was  so  maidenly  that  it  shrank  from  anything  in 
the  nature  of  a  proposal.  It  went  on  in  a  terrified  man- 


The  Helpmate  73 

Tier,  coyly  considering  and  hesitating — till  it  cleared  the 
House.  And  he  was  awfully  pleased  when  we  congratu- 
lated him  on  his  'maidenly  reserve.'  " 

"How  did  he  ever  get  elected?"  said  Miss  Proctor. 

"My  dear  lady,  it  was  a  glorious  stroke  of  the  Opposi- 
tion. They  withdrew  their  candidate  when  he  contested 
the  election.  Of  course,  they  felt  that  he'd  only  got  to 
make  a  speech  and  there'd  be  a  dissolution.  You  sim- 
ply saw  Parliament  melting  away  before  him.  If  he'd 
gone  on  he'd  have  worn  out  the  British  constitution." 

Dr.  Gardner  looked  at  Mrs.  Gardner  and  their  eyes 
brightened,  as  Majendie  continued  to  unfold  the  amazing 
resources  of  Sir  Rigley.  He  breathed  on  the  ex-member 
like  a  god,  and  played  with  him  like  a  juggler ;  he  tossed 
him  into  the  air  and  kept  him  there,  a  radiant,  unsubstan- 
tial thing.  The  ex-member  disported  himself  before 
Mrs.  Eliott's  dinner-party  as  he  had  never  disported  him- 
self in  Parliament.  Majendie  had  given  him  a  career, 
endowed  him  with  glorious  attributes.  The  ex-member, 
as  a  topic,  developed  capacities  unsuspected  in  him  be- 
fore. The  others  followed  his  flight  breathless,  afraid  to 
touch  him  lest  he  should  break  and  disappear  under  their 
hands. 

By  the  time  Majendie  had  done  with  him,  the  ex- 
member  had  entered  on  a  joyous  immortality  in  Scale. 

And  in  the  middle  of  it  all  Anne  laughed. 

Miss  Proctor  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the  sur- 
prise of  it.  She  leaned  across  the  table  with  a  liberal 
and  vivid  smile,  opulent  in  appreciation. 

"Well,  Mr.  Majendie,  Sir  Rigley  ought  to  be  grate- 
ful to  you.  If  ever  there  was  a  dull  subject  dead  and 
buried,  it  was  he,  poor  man.  And  now  the  difficulty  will 
be  to  forget  him." 


74  The  Helpmate 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Majendie  gravely,  "I  shall  forget 
him  myself  in  a  hurry." 

Oh  no,  he  never  would  forget  Sir  Rigley.  He  didn't 
want  to  forget  him.  He  would  be  grateful  to  him  as 
long  as  he  lived.  He  had  made  Anne  laugh.  A  girl's 
laugh,  young  and  deliciously  uncontrollable,  springing 
from  the  immortal  heart  of  joy. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  heard  her  laugh  so. 
He  didn't  know  she  could  do  it.  The  hope  of  hear- 
ing her  do  it  again  would  give  him  something  to 
live  for.  He  would  win  her  yet  if  he  could  make  her 
laugh. 

Anne  was  more  surprised  than  anybody,  at  him  and 
at  herself.  It  was  a  revelation  to  her,  his  cleverness, 
his  brilliant  social  gift.  She  was  only  intimate  with  one 
kind  of  cleverness,  the  kind  that  feeds  itself  on  lectures 
and  on  books.  She  had  not  thought  of  Walter  as  clever. 
She  had  only  thought  of  him  as  good.  That  one  quality 
of  goodness  had  swallowed  up  the  rest. 

Miss  Proctor  took  possession  of  her  where  she  sat  in 
the  drawing-room,  as  it  were  amid  the  scattered  frag- 
ments of  the  ex-member  (he  still,  among  the  ladies, 
emitted  a  feeble  radiance).  Miss  Proctor  had  always 
approved  of  Anne.  If  Anne  had  no  metropolitan  dis- 
tinction to  speak  of,  she  was  not  in  the  least  provincial. 
She  was  something  by  herself,  superior  and  rare.  A  lit- 
tle inclined  to  take  herself  too  seriously,  perhaps ;  but 
her  husband's  admirable  levity  would,  no  doubt,  improve 
her. 

"My  dear,"  said  Miss  Proctor,  "I  congratulate  you. 
He's  brilliant,  he's  charming,  he's  unique.  Why  didn't 
we  know  of  him  before  ?  Where  has  he  been  hiding  his 
talents  all  this  time  ?" 


The  Helpmate  75 

(A  talent  that  had  not  bloomed  in  Thurston  Square 
was  a  talent  pitiably  wasted.) 

Anne  smiled  a  blanched,  perfunctory  smile.  Ah, 
where  had  he  been  hiding  himself,  indeed? 

Miss  Proctor  stood  central,  radiating  the  rich  after- 
glow of  her  appreciation.  Her  gaze  was  a  little  critical 
of  her  friends'  faces,  as  if  she  were  measuring  the  effect, 
on  a  provincial  audience,  of  Majendie's  conversational 
technique.  She  swept  down  to  a  seat  beside  her  hostess. 

"My  dear  Fanny,"  she  said,  "why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Tell  you * 

"That  he  was  that  sort.  I  didn't  know  there  was  such 
a  delightful  man  in  Scale.  What  have  you  all  been 
dreaming  of?" 

Mrs.  Eliott  tried  to  look  both  amiable  and  intelligent. 
In  the  presence  of  Mr.  Majendie's  robust  reality  it  was 
indeed  as  if  they  had  all  been  dreaming.  Her  instinct 
told  her  that  the  spirit  of  pure  comedy  was  destruction 
to  the  dreams  she  dreamed.  She  tried  to  be  genial 
to  her  guest's  accomplishment;  but  she  felt  that  if  Mr. 
Majendie's  talents  were  let  loose  in  her  drawing-room, 
it  would  cease  to  be  the  place  of  intellectual  culture.  On 
the  other  hand  she  perceived  that  Miss  Proctor's  idea 
was  to  empty  that  drawing-room  by  securing  Mr.  Ma j en- 
die  for  her  own.  Mrs.  Eliott  remained  uncomfortably 
seated  on  her  dilemma. 

Sounds  of  laughter  reached  her  from  below.  The 
men  were  unusually  late  in  returning  to  the  drawing- 
room.  They  appeared  a  little  flushed  by  the  hilarious  fes- 
tival, as  if  Majendie  had  had  on  them  an  effect  of  mild 
intoxication.  She  could  see  that  even  Dr.  Gardner  was 
demoralised.  He  wore,  under  his  vagueness,  the  unmis- 
takable air  of  surrender  to  an  unfamiliar  excess.  Mr. 


j6  The  Helpmate 

Eliott  too  had  the  happy  look  of  a  man  who  has  fed  loftily 
after  a  long  fast. 

"Anne  dear,"  said  Majendie,  as  they  walked  back  the 
few  yards  between  Thurston  Square  and  Prior  Street, 
"we  shan't  have  to  do  that  very  often,  shall  we?" 

"Why  not  ?  You  can't  say  we  didn't  have  a  delightful 
evening." 

"Yes,  but  it  was  very  exhausting,  dear,  for  me." 

"You?  You  didn't  show  much  sign  of  exhaustion.  I 
never  heard  you  talk  so  well." 

"Did  I  talk  well?" 

"Yes.     Almost  too  well." 

"Too  much,  you  mean.  Well,  I  had  to  talk,  when  no- 
body else  did.  Besides,  I  did  it  for  a  purpose." 

But  what  his  purpose  was  Majendie  did  not  say. 

Anne  had  been  human  enough  to  enjoy  a  performance 
so  far  beyond  the  range  of  her  anticipations.  She  was 
glad,  above  all,  that  Walter  had  made  himself  acceptable 
in  Thurston  Square.  But  when  she  came  to  think  of  what 
was,  what  must  be  known  of  him  in  Scale,  she  was  ap- 
palled by  his  incomprehensible  ease  of  attitude.  She  re- 
flected that  this  must  have  been  the  first  time  he  had 
dined  in  Thurston  Square  since  the  scandal.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  did  not  realise  the  insufferable  nature 
of  that  incident,  the  efforts  it  must  have  cost  to  tolerate 
him,  the  points  that  had  been  stretched  to  take  him  in? 
She  felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  essen- 
tial solemnity  of  that  evening.  They  had  met  together, 
as  it  were,  to  celebrate  Walter's  return  to  the  sanctities 
and  proprieties  he  had  offended.  He  had  been  formally 
forgiven  and  received  by  the  society  which  (however 
Fanny  Eliott  might  explain  away  its  action)  had  most 
unmistakably  cast  him  out.  She  had  not  expected  him  to 


The  Helpmate  77 

part  with  his  indomitable  self-possession  under  the  or- 
deal, but  she  could  have  wished  that  he  had  borne  himself 
with  a  little  more  modesty.  He  had  failed  to  perceive 
the  redemptive  character  of  the  feast,  he  had  turned  it 
into  an  occasion  for  profane  personal  display. 

Mrs.  Eliott's  dinner-party  had  not  saved  him;  on  the 
contrary,  he  had  saved  the  dinner-party. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  NNE  was  right.  Though  Majendie  was,  as  he  ex- 
•*^-  pressed  it,  "up  to  her  designs  upon  his  unhappy 
soul,"  he  remained  unconscious  of  the  part  to  be 
played  by  Mrs.  Eliott  and  her  circle  in  the  scheme  of  his 
salvation.  From  his  observation  of  the  aristocracy  of 
Thurston  Square,  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  him 
that  they  were  people  who  could  count,  whichever  way 
you  looked  at  them. 

Meanwhile  he  was  a  little  disturbed  by  his  own  appear- 
ance as  a  heavenward  pilgrim.  He  was  not  sure  that 
he  had  not  gone  a  little  too  far  that  way,  and  he  felt  that 
it  was  a  shame  to  allow  Anne  to  take  him  seriously. 

He  confided  his  scruples  to  Edith. 

"Poor  dear,"  he  said,  "it's  quite  pathetic.  You  know, 
she  thinks  she's  saving  me." 

"And  do  you  mind  being  saved?" 

"Well,  no,  I  don't  mind  a  little  of  it.  But  the  question 
is,  how  long  I  can  keep  it  up." 

"You  mean,  how  long  she'll  keep  it  up  ?" 

He  laughed.  "Oh,  she'll  keep  it  up  for  ever.  No  pos- 
sible doubt  about  that.  She'll  never  tire.  I  wonder  if 
I  ought  to  tell  her." 

"Tell  her  what?" 

"That  it  won't  work.  That  she  can't  do  it  that  way. 
She's  wasting  my  time  and  her  own." 

"Oh,  what's  a  little  time,  dear,  when  you've  all  eternity 
in  view?" 

73 


The  Helpmate  79 

* 

"But  I  haven't.  I've  nothing  in  view.  My  view,  at 
present,  is  entirely  obscured  by  Anne." 

"Poor  Anne !  To  think  she  actually  stands  between 
you  and  your  Maker." 

"Yes,  you  know — in  her  very  anxiety  to  introduce  us." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Her  sainthood  was  so 
accomplished,  her  union  with  heaven  so  complete,  that 
she  could  afford  herself  these  profaner  sympathies.  She 
was  secretly  indignant  with  Anne's  view  of  Walter  as 
unpresentable  in  the  circles  of  the  spiritual  elite. 

"It  never  struck  her  that  you  mightn't  need  an  intro- 
duction after  all ;  that  you  were  in  it  as  much  as  she. 
That's  the  sort  of  mistake  one  might  expect  from — from 
a  spiritual  parvenu,  but  not  from  Anne." 

"Oh,  come,  I  don't  consider  myself  her  equal  by  a  long 
chalk." 

"Well,  say  she  does  belong  to  the  peerage ;  you're  a 
gentleman,  and  what  more  can  she  require  ?" 

"She  can't  see  that  I  am  (If  I  am.  You  say  so). 
She  considers  me — spiritually — a  bounder  of  the  worst 
sort." 

"That's  her  mistake.  Though  I  must  say  you  some- 
times lend  yourself  to  it  with  your  horrible  profanity." 

"I  can't  help  it,  Edie.  She's  so  funny  with  it.  She 
makes  me  profane." 

"Dear  Walter,  if  you  can  think  Anne  funny " 

"I  do.  I  think  she's  furiously  funny,  and  horribly 
pathetic.  All  the  time,  you  know,  she  thinks  she's  lead- 
ing me  upward.  Profanity's  my  only  refuge  from 
hypocrisy." 

"Oh  no,  not  your  only  refuge.  You  say  she  thinks 
she's  leading  you.  Don't  let  her  think  it.  Make  her 
think  you're  leading  her." 


8o  The  Helpmate 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Majendie,  "she'd  enjoy  that  quite 
so  much?" 

"She'd  enjoy  it  more.  If  you  took  her  the  right  way. 
The  way  I  mean." 

"What's  that?" 

"You  must  find  out,"  said  she.  "I'm  not  going  to  tell 
you  everything." 

Majendie  became  thoughtful.  "My  only  fear  was  that 
I  couldn't  keep  it  up.  But  you  really  don't  think,  then, 
that  I  should  score  much  if  I  did?" 

"No,  my  dear,  I  don't.  And  as  for  keeping  it  up,  you 
never  could.  And  if  you  did  she'd  never  understand 
what  you  were  doing  it  for.  That's  not  the  way  to  show 
you're  in  love  with  her." 

"But  that's  just  what  I  don't  want  her  to  see.  That's 
what  she  hates  so  much  in  me.  I've  always  understood 
that  in  these  matters  it's  discreeter  not  to  show  your  hand 
too  plainly.  You  see,  it's  just  as  if  we'd  never  been  mar- 
ried, for  all  she  cares.  That's  the  trouble." 

"There's  something  in  that.  If  she's  not  in  love  with 
you " 

"Look  here,  Edie,  you're  a  woman,  and  you  know  all 
about  them.  Do  you  really,  honestly  think  Anne  ever 
was  in  love  with  me?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me.     How  should  I  know?" 

"No,  but,"  he  persisted,  "what  do  you  think  ?" 

"I  think  she  was  in  love." 

"But  not  with  me,  though  ?" 

"No,  no,  not  with  you." 

"With  whom,  then  ?" 

"Darling  idiot,  there  wasn't  any  who.  If  there  was, 
do  you  think  I'd  give  her  away  like  that  ?  If  you'd  asked 
me  what  she  was  in  love  with " 


The  Helpmate  8 1 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"Your  goodness.  She  was  head  over  ears  in  love  with 
that." 

"I  see.     With  something  that  I  wasn't." 

"No,  with  something  that  you  were,  that  you  are,  only 
she  doesn't  know  it." 

"Then,"  said  Majendie,  "you  can't  get  out  of  it,  she's 
in  love  with  me." 

"Oh  no,  no,  you  dear  goose,  not  with  you.  To  be  in 
love  with  you  she'd  have  to  be  in  love  with  everything 
you're  not,  as  well  as  everything  you  are;  with  every- 
thing you  have  been,  with  everything  you  never  were, 
with  everything  you  will  be,  everything  you  might  be, 
could  be,  should  be." 

"That's  a  large  order,  Edie." 

"There's  a  larger  one  than  that.  She  might  sweep  all 
that  overboard,  see  it  go  by  whole  pieces  (the  best 
pieces)  at  a  time,  and  still  be  in  love  with  the  dear,  in- 
comprehensible, indescribable  you.  That,"  said  Edie, 
triumphant  in  her  wisdom,  "is  what  being  in  love  is." 

"And  do  you  think  she  isn't  in  it  ?" 

"No.    Not  anywhere  near  it.    But — it's  a  big  but " 

"I  don't  care  how  big  it  is.     Don't  bother  me  with  it." 

"Bother  you?  Why,  it's  a  beautiful  but.  As  I  said, 
she  isn't  in  love  with  you;  but  she  may  be  any  minute. 
It's  just  touch  and  go  with  her.  It  depends  on  you." 

"Heavens,  what  am  I  to  do?     I've  done  everything." 

"Yes,  you  have,  but  she  hasn't.  She's  done  nothing. 
She  doesn't  know  how  to.  You've  got  to  show  her." 

He  shook  his  head  hopelessly.  "You're  beyond  me. 
I  don't  understand.  There  isn't  anything  for  me  to  do. 
How  am  I  to  show  her?" 

"I  mean  show  her  what  there  is  in  it.     What  it  means. 


82  The  Helpmate 

What  it's  going  to  be  for  her  as  well  as  you.  Just  go 
at  it  hard,  harder  than  you  did  before  you  married  her." 

"I  see,  I've  got  to  make  love  to  her  all  over  again." 

"Exactly.     All  over  again  from  the  very  beginning." 

"I  say !"  He  took  it  in,  her  idea,  in  all  the  width  and 
splendour  of  its  simplicity.  "And  do  it  differently?" 

"Oh,  very  differently." 

"I  don't  quite  see  where  thf  difference  is  to  come  in. 
What  did  I  do  before  that  was  so  wrong?" 

"Nothing.  That's  just  the  worst  of  it.  It  was  all  too 
right.  Ever  so  much  too  right.  Don't  you  see?  It's 
what  we've  been  talking  about.  You  made  her  in  love 
with  your  goodness.  And  she  was  in  love  with  it,  not 
because  it  was  your  goodness,  but  because  it  was  her  own. 
That's  why  she  wanted  to  marry  it.  She  couldn't  be  in 
love  with  it  for  any  other  reason,  because  she's  an  ego- 
ist." 

"No.  There  you're  quite  wrong.  That's  what  she 
isn't." 

"Oh,  you  are  in  love  with  her.  Of  course  she's  an 
egoist.  All  the  nicest  women  are.  I'm  an  egoist  myself. 
Do  you  love  me  less  for  it?" 

"I  don't  love  you  less  for  anything." 

"Well — unless  you  can  make  Anne  jealous  of  me — and 
you  can't — you've  got  to  love  me  less,  now,  dear  boy. 
That's  where  I  come  in — to  be  kept  out  of  it." 

She  had  led  him  breathless  on  her  giddy  round;  she 
plunged  him  back  into  bewilderment.  He  hadn't  a  no- 
tion where  she  was  taking  him  to,  where  they  would 
come  out;  but  there  was  a  desperate  delight  in  the  im- 
petuous journey,  the  wind  of  her  sudden  flight  lifted  him 
and  carried  him  on.  He  had  always  trusted  the  marvel- 
lous inspirations  of  her  heart.  She  had  failed  him  once ; 


he  Helpmate  83 

but  now  he  could  not  deny  that  she  had  given  him  lights, 
and  he  looked  for  a  stupendous  illumination  at  the  end  of 
the  way. 

"Out  of  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  where  should  I 
have  been  without  you?  You  were  the  beginning 
of  it." 

"I  was  indeed.  You've  got  to  take  care  I'm  not  the 
end  of  it,  that's  all." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  what  I  say.  You  don't  want  Anne  to  be  in 
love  with  you  for  my  sake,  do  you  ?" 

"N  —  no.  I  don't  know  that  I  do  exactly.  At  least 
I  should  prefer  that  she  was  in  love  with  me  for  my 
own." 

"Well,  you  must  make  her,  then.  That's  why  you've 
got  to  leave  me  out  of  it.  I've  been  too  much  in  it  all 
along.  It  was  through  me  she  conceived  that  unfor- 
tunate idea  of  your  goodness.  I'm  its  father  and  its 
mother  and  its  nurse,  I  ministered  to  it  every  hour.  I 
fed  it,  I  brought  it  up,  I  brought  it  out,  I  provided  all  the 
opportunity  for  its  display.  Nothing  else  had  a  show 
beside  your  goodness,  Wallie  dear.  It  was  something 
monstrous.  It  took  Anne's  affection  from  you  and  con- 
centrated it  all  on  itself.  She  worshipped  it,  she  clung 
to  it,  she  saw  nothing  else  but  it,  and  when  it  went  every- 
thing went.  Yon  went  first  of  all.  Well,  you  must  just 
see  that  that  doesn't  happen  again." 

"You  mean  that  I  must  lead  a  life  of  iniquity  ?" 

"You  mustn't  lead  a  life  of  anything." 

"Do  you  mean  I  mustn't  be  good  any  more?" 

Majendie's  imagination  played  hilariously  with  this 
fantastic,  this  preposterous  notion  of  his  goodness. 

"Oh  yes,  be  good,"  said  Edith,  "but  not  too  good. 


84  The  Helpmate 

Above  all,  not  too  good  to  me.  Concentrate  on  her, 
stupid." 

"I  have  concentrated,"  he  moaned,  mystified  beyond 
endurance.  "Besides,  you  said  I  couldn't  make  her  jeal- 
ous." 

"No,  I  wish  you  could.  I  mean,  don't  let  her  fall  in 
love  with  your  devotion  to  me  again.  Don't  hold  her  by 
that  one  rope.  Hold  her  by  all  your  ropes ;  then,  if  one 
goes,  it  doesn't  so  much  matter." 

"I  see.     You  don't  trust  my  goodness." 

"Oh,  /  trust  it,  so  will  she  again.  But  don't  you  trust 
it.  That  precious  goodness  of  yours  is  your  rival.  A 
bad,  dangerous  rival.  You've  got  to  beat  it  out  of  the 
field.  Show  that  you're  jealous  of  it.  A  little  judicious 
jealousy  won't  hurt."  Edith's  eyes  were  still  and  pro- 
found with  wisdom.  "I  don't  believe  you've  ever  yet 
made  love  to  Anne  properly.  That's  what  it  all  comes 
to." 

"Oh,  I  say,"  said  he,  "what  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"I'm  only  judging,"  said  Edith,  "by  the  results." 

"Oh,  that  isn't  fair." 

"Perhaps  it  isn't,"  she  owned,  her  wisdom  growing  by 
what  it  fed  on. 

"You  see,  she  wouldn't  let  me  do  it  properly." 

Edith  pondered.  "Yes,  but  how  long  ago  is  it?  And 
you've  been  married  since." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"I  should  say  it  would  make  all  the  difference.  Anne 
was  a  girl,  then.  She  didn't  understand.  She's  a 
woman  now.  She  does  understand.  She  can  be  ap- 
pealed to." 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  he  murmured  thickly. 


The  Helpmate  85 

"Of  course  you  didn't." 

"Edie,"  he  said,  and  his  face  was  still  hidden,  "how- 
ever did  you  think  of  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  see  some  things,  and  then  other 
things  come  round  to  me.  But  you  mustn't  forget  that 
you've  got  to  begin  all  over  again  from  the  very  begin- 
ning. You'll  have  to  be  very  careful  with  her,  every  bit 
as  careful  as  if  she  were  a  strange  lady  you've  just  met 
at  a  dance.  Don't  forget  that  she's  strange,  that  she's 
another  woman,  in  fact." 

"I  see.  If  there  are  to  be  many  of  these  remarkable 
transformations  of  Anne,  I  shall  have  all  the  excitement 
of  polygamy  without  its  drawbacks." 

"You  will.  And  it's  the  same  for  her,  remember. 
You're  a  strange  man.  You've  just  been  introduced,  you 
know — by  me — and  you're  begging  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  first  waltz,  and  Anne  pretends  that  her  programme 
is  full,  and  you  look  over  her  shoulder  and  see  that  it 
isn't,  and  that  she  puts  you  down  for  all  the  nice  ones. 
And  you  sit  out  all  the  rest,  and  you  flirt  on  the  stairs, 
and  take  her  in  to  supper,  and,  finally,  you  know,  you  pull 
yourself  together  and  you  do  it — in  the  conserva- 
tory. Oh,  it'll  be  so  amusing,  and  so  funny  to  watch. 
You'll  begin  by  being  most  awfully  polite  to  each 
other." 

"I  suppose  I  may  yet  be  permitted  to  call  this  strange 
young  lady  Anne?" 

"Yes.  That's  because  you  remember  that  you  have 
known  her  once  before,  a  very  long  time  ago,  when  you 
were  children.  You  are  children,  both  of  you.  Oh, 
Walter,  I  believe  you're  looking  forward  to  it ;  I  believe 
you're  glad  you've  got  to  do  it  all  over  again." 

"Yes,  Edie,  I  positively  believe  I  am." 


86  The  Helpmate 

He  rose,  laughing,  prepared  to  begin  that  minute  his 
new  wooing  of  Anne. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Edith,  "it  is  good-bye,  you  know,  and 
good  luck  to  you." 

This  time  she  knew  that  she  had  been  wise  for  him. 

Anne  would  have  been  horrified  if  she  had  known  that 
the  situation,  so  terrible  for  her,  was  developing  for  her 
husband  certain  possibilities  of  charm.  His  irrepressible 
boyishness  refused  to  accept  it  in  all  its  moral  gloom. 
There  were,  he  perceived,  advantages  in  these  strained 
relations.  They  had  removed  Anne  into  the  mysterious 
realm  her  maidenhood  had  inhabited,  before  marriage 
had  had  time  to  touch  her  magic.  She  had  become  once 
more  the  unapproachable  and  unattained.  Their  first 
courtship,  pursued  under  intolerable  restrictions  of  time 
and  place,  had  been  a  rather  uninspired  affair,  and  its 
end  a  foregone  conclusion.  He  had  been  afraid  of  him- 
self, afraid  sometimes  of  her.  For  he  had  not  brought 
her  the  spontaneous,  unalarmed,  unspoiled  spirit  of  his 
youth.  He  had  come  to  her  with  a  stain  on  his  imagina- 
tion and  a  wound  in  his  memory.  And  she  was  holy 
to  him.  He  had  held  himself  in,  lest  a  touch,  a  word,  a 
gesture  should  recall  some  insufferable  association. 

Marriage  had  delivered  him  from  the  tyranny  of  remi- 
niscence. No  reminiscence  could  stand  before  the  force 
of  passion  in  possession.  It  purified;  it  destroyed;  it 
built  up  in  three  days  its  own  inviolable  memory. 

And  Anne,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  had  had  no 
power  to  undo  its  work  in  him. 

In  herself,  too,  below  her  kindling  spiritual  conscious- 
ness, in  the  unexplored  depth  and  darkness  of  her,  its 
work  remained. 

Majendie  was  unaware  how  far  he  had  become  another 


The  Helpmate  87 

man  and  she  another  woman.  He  was  merely  alive  to 
the  unusual  and  agreeable  excitement  of  wooing  his  own 
wife.  There  was  a  piquancy  in  the  experiment  that  ap- 
pealed to  him.  Her  new  coldness  called  to  him  like  a 
challenge.  Her  new  remoteness  waked  the  adventurous 
youth  in  him.  His  imagination  was  touched  as  it  had 
not  been  touched  before.  He  could  see  that  Anne  had 
not  yet  got  over  her  discovery.  The  shock  of  it  was  in 
her  nerves.  He  felt  that  she  shrank  from  him,  and  his 
chivalry  still  spared  her. 

He  ceased  to  be  her  husband  and  became  her  very 
courteous,  very  distant  lover.  He  made  no  claims,  and 
took  nothing  for  granted.  He  simply  began  all  over  again 
from  the  very  beginning.  His  conscience  was  vaguely 
appeased  by  the  illusion  of  the  new  leaf,  the  rejuvenated 
innocence  of  the  blank  page.  They  had  never  been  mar- 
ried (so  the  illusion  suggested).  There  had  been  no 
revelations.  They  met  as  strangers  in  their  own  house, 
at  their  own  table.  In  support  of  this  pleasing  fiction 
he  set  about  his  courtship  with  infinite  precautions.  He 
found  himself  exaggerating  Anne's  distance  and  the 
lapse  of  intimacy.  He  made  his  way  slowly,  through  all 
the  recognised  degrees,  from  mere  acquaintance,  through 
friendship  to  permissible  fervour. 

And  from  time  to  time,  with  incomparable  discretion, 
he  would  withhold  himself  that  he  might  make  himself 
more  precious.  He  was  hardly  aware  of  his  own  re- 
straint, his  refinements  of  instinct  and  of  mood.  It  was 
as  if  he  drew,  in  his  desperate  necessity,  upon  unrealised, 
untried  resources.  There  was  something  in  Anne  that 
checked  the  primitive  impulse  of  swift  chase,  and  called 
forth  the  curious  half-feminine  cunning  of  the  sophis- 
ticated pursuer.  She  froze  at  his  ardour,  but  his  cold- 


88  The  Helpmate 

ness  almost  kindled  her,  so  that  he  approached  by  with- 
drawals and  advanced  by  flights. 

He  displayed,  first  of  all,  a  heavenly  ignorance,  an  in- 
spired curiosity  regarding  her.  He  consulted  her  tastes, 
as  if  he  had  never  known  them ;  he  started  the  time- 
honoured  lovers'  topics;  he  talked  about  books — which 
she  preferred  and  the  reasons  for  her  preference. 

He  did  not  advance  very  far  that  way.  Anne  was  sim- 
ply annoyed  at  the  lapses  in  his  memory. 

He  then  began  to  buy  books  on  the  chance  of  her  lik- 
ing them,  which  answered  better. 

He  promoted  himself  by  degrees  to  personalities.  He 
talked  to  her  about  herself,  handling  her  with  religious 
reticence  as  a  thing  of  holy  and  incomprehensible  mys- 
tery. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  one  day,  "if  I  were  good  enough, 
I  should  understand  you.  Why  do  you  sigh  like  that? 
Is  it  because  I'm  not  good  enough?  Or  because  I  don't 
understand  ?" 

"I  think,"  said  she,  "it  is  because  I  don't  understand 
you." 

"My  dear"  (he  allowed  himself  at  this  point  the  more 
formal  endearment),  "I  thought  I  was  disgracefully 
transparent — I'm  limpidity,  simplicity  itself.  I've  only 
one  idea  and  one  subject  of  conversation.  Ask  Edith. 
She  understands  me." 

"Ah,  Edith "  said  Anne,  as  if  Edith  were  a  very 

different  affair. 

The  intonation  was  hopeful,  it  suggested  some  slender 
and  refined  jealousy.  (If  only  he  could  make  her 
jealous !) 

On  the  strength  of  it  he  advanced  to  the  punctual  daily 
offering  of  flowers,  flowers  for  her  drawing-room,  flow- 


The  Helpmate  89 

ers  for  her  bedroom,  flowers  for  her  to  wear.  After 
that  he  took  to  writing  her  letters  from  the  office  with 
increasing  frequency  and  fervour.  Anne,  too,  was  cour- 
teous and  distant.  She  accepted  all  he  had  to  offer  as  a 
becoming  tribute  to  her  feminine  superiority,  and  evaded 
dexterously  the  deeper  issue. 

Now  and  then  he  reported  his  progress  to 
Edith. 

"I  rather  think,"  he  said,  "she's  coming  round.  I'm 
regarded  as  a  distinctly  eligible  person." 

They  laughed  at  his  complete  adoption  of  the  part  and 
his  innocent  joy  in  it. 

That  had  always  been  his  way.  When  he  had  begun 
a  game  there  was  no  stopping  him.  He  played  it  through 
to  the  end. 

Edith  would  look  up  smiling  and  say :  "Well,  how  goes 
the  affair?"  (They  always  called  it  the  affair.)  Or: 
"How  did  you  get  on  to-day  ?" 

And  it  would  be :  "Pretty  well."— "Better  to-day  than 
yesterday." — "No  luck  to-day." 

One  Sunday  he  came  to  her  radiant. 

"She  really  does,"  said  he,  "seem  interested  in  what  I 
say." 

"What  did  you  talk  about?" 

"The  influence  of  Christianity  on  woman.  Was  that 
good?" 

"Very  good." 

"I  didn't  know  very  much  about  it,  but  I  got  her  to 
tell  me  things." 

"That,"  said  Edith,  "was  still  better." 

"But  she  sticks  to  it  that  she  doesn't  understand  me. 
That's  bad." 

"No,"  said  Edith,  "that's  best  of  all.     It  shows  she's 


90  The  Helpmate 

thinking  of  you.  She  wants  to  understand.  Believe  me, 
the  affair  marches." 

He  meditated  on  that. 

In  the  evening,  the  better  to  meditate,  he  withdrew  to 
his  study.  It  was  not  long  before  Anne  came  to  him  of 
her  own  accord.  She  asked  if  she  might  read  aloud  to 
him. 

"I  should  be  honoured,"  he  replied  stiffly. 

She  chose  Emerson,  "On  Compensation."  And  Ma- 
jendie  did  not  care  for  Emerson. 

But  Anne  had  a  charming  voice;  a  voice  with  tones 
that  penetrated  like  pain,  that  thrilled  like  a  touch,  that 
clung  delicately  like  a  shy  caress;  tones  that  were  as  a 
funeral  bell  for  sadness ;  tones  that  rose  to  passion 
without  ever  touching  it;  clear,  cool  tones  that  were 
like  water  to  passion's  flame.  Majendie  closed  his  eyes 
and  let  her  voice  play  over  him. 

"Did  you  like  it?"  she  asked  gravely. 

"Like  it?     I  love  it." 

"So  do  I.     I  hoped  you  would." 

"My  dear,  I  didn't  understand  one  word  of  it." 

"You  can't  make  me  believe  you  loved  it  then." 

He  looked  at  her. 

"I  loved  the  sound  of  your  voice,  dear." 

"Oh,"  said  she  coldly,  "is  that  all?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "isn't  it  enough?" 

"I'd  rather "  she  began  and  hesitated. 

"You'd  rather  I  understood  Emerson?" 

Her  blood  flushed  in  the  honey  whiteness  of  her  face. 
She  rose,  put  the  book  in  its  place,  and  left  the  room. 

"Edith,"  he  said,  relating  the  incident  afterwards,  "I 
thought  she  was  coming  round  when  she  wanted  to  read 
to  me.  Why  did  she  get  up  and  go  like  that?" 


The  Helpmate  91 

"She  went,  dear  goose,  because  she  was  afraid  to  stay." 

"Why  afraid?" 

"Because  she's  fighting  you,  Wallie.  It's  all  right  if 
she's  got  to  fight." 

"Yes,  but  suppose  she  wins?" 

"She  can't  win  fighting — she's  a  woman.  Her  only 
chance  is  to  run  away." 

That  night  Anne  knelt  by  her  bedside  and  hid  her  face 
and  prayed  for  Walter ;  that  he  might  be  purified,  so  that 
she  might  love  him  without  sin;  that  he  and  she  might 
travel  together  on  the  divine  way,  and  together  be  re- 
ceived into  the  heavenly  places. 

She  had  felt  that  night  the  stirring  of  natural  affection. 
It  had  come  back  to  her,  a  feeble,  bruised,  humiliated 
thing.  She  could  not  harbour  it  without  spiritual  justi- 
fication. 

She  kept  herself  awake  by  saying :  "I  can't  love  him,  I 
can't  love  him — unless  God  makes  him  fit  for  me  to  love." 

Sleeping,  she  dreamed  that  she  was  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  Anne's  birthday.  It  shone  in  mid-May  like  the 
front  of  June.  Anne's  bedroom  was  over  Edith's 
and  looked  out  on  the  garden.  A  little  rain  had  fallen 
over  night.  Through  the  open  window  the  day  greeted 
her  with  a  breath  of  flowers  and  earth ;  a  day  that  came 
to  her  all  golden,  ripe  and  sweet  from  the  south. 

Her  dressing-table  was  placed  sideways  from  the  win- 
dow. Anne,  fresh  from  her  cold  bath,  in  a  white  muslin 
gown,  with  her  thick  sleek  hair  coiled  and  burnished, 
sat  before  the  looking-glass. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  not  Nanna's  bold 
awakening  summons,  but  a  shy  and  gentle  sound.  Her 
heart  shook  her  voice  as  she  responded. 

"Is  it  permitted?"  said  Majendie. 

"If  you  like,"  she  answered  quietly. 

He  presented  his  customary  morning  sacrifice  of  flow- 
ers. Hitherto  he  had  not  presumed  so  far  as  to  bring  it 
to  her  room.  It  waited  for  her  decorously  at  breakfast 
time,  beside  her  plate. 

She  took  the  flowers  from  him,  acknowledged  their 
fragrance  by  a  quiver  of  her  delicate  nostrils,  thanked 
him,  and  laid  them  on  the  dressing-table. 

He  seated  himself  on  the  window-sill,  where  he  could 
see  her  with  the  day  upon  her.  She  noticed  that  he  had 
brought  with  him,  beside  the  flowers,  a  small  oblong 
wooden  box.  He  laid  the  box  on  his  knee  and  covered  it 
with  his  hand.  He  sat  very  still,  looking  at  her  as  her 

92 


The  Helpmate  93 

firm  white  hands  caressed  her  coiled  hair  into  shape. 
Once  she  moved  his  flowers  to  find  her  comb,  and  laid 
them  down  again. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  wear  them?"  he  inquired  anx- 
iously. 

Her  upper  lip  lifted  an  instant,  caught  up,  in  its  fash- 
ion, by  the  pretty  play  of  the  little  sensitive  amber  mole. 
Two  small  white  teeth  showed  and  were  hidden  again. 
It  wras  as  if  she  had  been  about  to  smile,  or  to  speak,  and 
had  thought  better  of  it. 

She  took  up  the  flowers  and  tried  them,  now  at  her 
breast,  and  now  at  her  waist. 

"Where  shall  I  put  them?"  said  she.  "Here?  Or 
here?" 

"Just  there." 

She  let  them  stay  there  in  the  hollow  of  her  breast. 

He  laid  the  box  on  the  dressing-table  close  to  her  hand 
where  it  searched  for  pins. 

"I've  brought  you  this,"  he  said  gently. 

She  smiled  that  divine  and  virgin  smile  of  hers.  Anne 
was  big,  but  her  smile  was  small  and  close  and  shy. 

"You  remembered  my  birthday?" 

"Did  you  think  I  should  forget?" 

She  opened  the  lid  with  cool  unhurried  fingers.  Un- 
der the  wrappings  of  tissue  paper  and  cotton  wool,  a 
shape  struck  clear  and  firm  and  familiar  to  her  touch. 
A  sacred  thrill  ran  through  her  as  she  felt  there  the  pres- 
ence of  the  holy  thing,  the  symbol  so  dear  and  so  desired 
that  it  was  divined  before  seen. 

She  lifted  from  the  box  an  old  silver  crucifix.  It  must 
have  been  the  work  of  some  craftsman  whose  art  was 
pure  and  fine  as  the  silver  he  had  wrought  in.  But  that 
was  not  what  Anne  saw.  She  had  always  found  some- 


94  The  Helpmate 

thing  painful  and  repellent  in  those  crucifixes  of  wood 
which  distort  and  deepen  the  lines  of  ivory,  or  in  those 
of  ivory  which  gives  again  the  very  pallor  of  human 
death.  But  the  precious  metal  had  somehow  eternalised 
the  symbol  of  the  crucified  body.  She  saw  more  than 
the  torture,  the  exhaustion,  the  attenuation.  Surely,  on 
the  closed  eyelids  there  rested  the  glory  and  the  peace 
of  divine  accomplishment? 

She  stood  still,  holding  it  in  her  hand  and  looking  at 
it.  Majendie  stood  still,  also  looking  at  her.  He  was 
not  quite  sure  whether  she  were  going  to  accept  that  gift, 
whether  she  would  hesitate  to  take  from  his  profane 
hands  a  thing  so  sacred  and  so  supreme.  He  was  aware 
that  his  fate  somehow  hung  on  her  acceptance,  and  he 
waited  in  silence,  lest  a  word  should  destroy  the  work  of 
love  in  her. 

Anne,  too  (when  she  could  detach  her  mind  from  the 
crucifix),  felt  that  the  moment  was  decisive.  To  accept 
that  gift,  of  all  gifts,  was  to  lay  her  spirit  under  obliga- 
tion to  him.  It  was  more  than  a  surrender  of  body, 
heart,  or  mind.  It  was  to  admit  him  to  association 
with  the  unspeakably  sacred  acts  of  prayer  and  ado- 
ration. 

If  it  were  possible  that  that  had  been  his  desire ;  if  he 
had  meant  his  gift  as  a  tribute,  not  to  her  only,  but  to  the 
spirit  of  holiness  in  her ;  if,  in  short,  he  had  been  serious, 
then,  indeed,  she  could  not  hesitate.  For,  if  it  were  so, 
her  prayer  was  answered. 

She  laid  down  the  crucifix  and  turned  to  him.  They 
searched  each  other  with  their  eyes.  She  saw,  without 
wholly  understanding,  the  pain  in  his.  He  saw,  also  un- 
intelligently,  the  austerity  in  hers. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  take  it,  then?"  he  said. 


The  Helpmate  95 

"I  don't  know.  Do  you  realise  that  you  are  giving  me 
a  very  sacred  thing?" 

"I  do." 

"And  that  I  can't  treat  it  as  I  would  an  ordinary  pres- 
ent?" 

He  lowered  his  eyelids.  "I  didn't  think  you'd  want 
to  wear  it  in  your  hair,  dear." 

She  was  about  to  ask  him  what  he  did  mean  then ;  but 
some  instinct  held  her,  told  her  not  to  press  the  sign  of 
grace  too  hard.  She  looked  at  him  still  more  intently. 
His  eyes  had  disconcerted  and  baffled  her,  but  now  she 
was  sheltered  by  their  lowered  lids.  Then  she  noticed 
for  the  first  time  that  his  face  showed  the  marks  of  suf- 
fering. It  was  as  if  it  had  dropped  suddenly  the  brilliant 
mask  it  wore  for  her,  and  given  up  its  secret  unaware. 
He  had  suffered  so  that  he  had  not  slept.  It  was  plain  to 
her  in  the  droop  of  his  eyelids,  and  in  the  drawn  lines 
about  his  eyes  and  mouth  and  nostrils.  She  was  touched 
with  tenderness  and  pity,  and  a  certain  unintelligible  awe. 
And  she  knew  her  hour.  She  knew  that  if  she  closed 
her  heart  now,  it  would  never  open  to  him.  She  knew 
that  it  was  his  hour  as  well  as  hers.  She  felt,  reverently, 
that  it  was,  above  all,  God's  hour. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  her  husband's  gift,  saying  to 
herself  that  if  she  took  that  crucifix  she  would  be  taking 
him  with  it  into  the  holy  places  of  her  heart. 

"I  will  take  it."  Her  voice  came  shy  and  inarticulate 
as  a  marriage  vow. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

He  wondered  if  she  would  turn  to  him  with  some  sign 
of  tenderness,  whether  she  would  stoop  to  him  and  touch 
him  with  her  hand  or  her  lips ;  or  whether  she  looked  to 
him  to  offer  the  first  caress. 


96  The  Helpmate 

She  did  nothing.  It  was  as  if  her  intentness,  her  con- 
centration upon  her  holy  purpose  held  her.  While  her 
soul  did  but  turn  to  him  in  the  darkness,  it  kept  and  would 
keep  their  hands  and  lips  apart. 

He  divined  that  she  was  only  half-won.  But,  though 
her  body  yet  moved  in  its  charmed  inviolate  circle,  he  felt 
dimly  that  the  spiritual  barrier  was  down. 

She  turned  from  him  and  went  slowly  to  the  door. 
He  opened  it  and  followed  her.  On  the  stairs  she  parted 
from  him  and  went  alone  into  his  sister's  bedroom. 

Edith's  spine  had  been  hurting  her  in  the  night.  She 
lay  flat  and  exhausted,  and  the  embrace  of  her  loving 
arms  was  slow  and  frail. 

Edith  was  what  she  called  "dressed,"  and  waiting  for 
her  sister-in-law.  The  little  table  by  her  bed  was  strewn 
with  the  presents  she  had  bought  and  made  for  Anne. 
A  birthday  was  a  very  serious  affair  for  Edith.  She 
was  not  content  to  buy  (buying  was  nothing;  anybody 
could  buy)  ;  she  must  also  make,  and  make  beautifully. 
"I  mayn't  have  any  legs  that  can  carry  me,"  said  Edith ; 
"but  I've  hands  and  I  will  use  them.  If  it  wasn't  for 
my  hands  I'd  be  nothing  but  a  great  lumbering,  lazy  mass 
of  palpitating  heart."  But  her  making  had  become  every 
year  more  and  more  expensive.  Her  beautiful,  pitiful 
embroideries  were  paid  for  in  bad  nights.  And  at  six 
o'clock  that  morning  she  had  given  her  little  dismal  cry : 
"Oh,  Nanna,  Nanna,  my  beast  of  a  spine  is  going  to 
bother  me  to-day,  and  it's  Anne's  birthday!" 

"And  what  else,"  said  Nanna  severely,  "do  you  expect, 
Miss  Edith?" 

"I  didn't  expect  this.     I  do  believe  it's  getting  worse." 

"Worse?"  Nanna  was  contemptuous.  "It  was  worse 
on  Master  Walter's  birthday  last  year." 


The  Helpmate  97 

(Last  year  she  had  made  a  waistcoat.) 

"I  can't  think,"  moaned  Edith,  "why  it's  always  bad 
on  birthdays." 

But  however  badly  "it"  might  behave  in  the  night, 
it  was  never  permitted  to  destroy  the  spirit  of  the 
day. 

Anne  looked  anxiously  at  the  collapsed,  exhausted  fig- 
ure in  the  bed. 

"Yes,"  said  Edith,  having  smiled  at  her  sister-in-law 
with  magnificent  mendacity,  "you  may  well  look  at  me. 
You  couldn't  make  yourself  as  flat  as  I  am  if  you  tried. 
There  are  two  books  for  you,  and  a  thingummy- jig,  and 
a  handkerchief  to  blow  your  dear  nose  with." 

"Edie " 

"Do  you  like  them?" 

"Like  them?     Oh,  you  dear " 

"Why  don't  you  have  a  birthday  oftener?  It  makes 
you  look  so  pretty,  dear." 

Anne's  heart  leaped.  Edie's  ways,  her  very  words 
sometimes  were  like  Walter's. 

''Has  Walter  seen  you?" 

Anne's  face  became  instantly  solemn,  but  it  was  not 
sad. 

"Edie,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  what  he  has  given 
me!" 

"Yes,"  said  Edith.  Her  eyes  searched  Anne's  eyes 
with  pain  in  them  that  was  somehow  akin  to  Walter's 
pain. 

"She  knows  everything,"  thought  Anne,  "and  it  was 
her  idea,  then,  not  his." 

"Edith,"  said  she,  "was  it  you  who  thought  of  it,  or 
he?" 

"I?     Never.     He  didn't  say  a  word  about  it.     He  just 


98  The  Helpmate 

went  and  got  it.  He  thought  it  all  out  by  himself,  poor 
dear." 

"Can  you  think  why  he  thought  of  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Edith  gravely,  "I  can.     Can't  you?" 

Anne  was  silent. 

"It's  very  simple.  He  wants  you  to  trust  him  a  little 
more,  that's  all." 

Anne's  mouth  trembled,  and  she  tightened  it. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  him?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am." 

"Because  you  think  he  isn't  very  spiritual?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Oh,  but  he's  on  his  way  there,"  said  Edith.  "He's 
human.  You've  got  to  be  human  before  you  can  be 
spiritual.  It's  a  most  important  part  of  the  process. 
Don't  you  omit  it." 

"Have  I  omitted  it?" 

She  stroked  one  of  the  thin  hands  that  were  out- 
stretched towards  her  on  the  coverlet,  and  the  other 
closed  on  her  caress.  The  touch  brought  the  tears  into 
her  eyes.  She  raised  her  head  to  keep  them  from  falling. 

"Dear,"  said  Edith,  and  paused  and  reiterated,  "dear, 
you  have  about  all  the  big  things  that  I  haven't.  You're 
splendid.  There's  only  one  thing  I  want  for  you.  If 
you  could  only  see  how  divinely  sacred  the  human  part  of 
us  is — and  how  pathetic." 

Anne  looked  at  her  as  she  lay  there,  bright  and  brave, 
untroubled  by  her  own  mortal  pathos.  In  her,  humanity, 
woman's  humanity,  was  reduced  to  its  simplest  expres- 
sion of  spiritual  loving  and  bodily  suffering.  Anne  was 
a  child  in  her  ignorance  of  the  things  that  had  been  re- 
vealed to  Edith  lying  there. 

Looking  at  her,  Anne's  tears  grew  heavy  and  fell. 


The  Helpmate  99 

"It's  your  birthday,"  said  Edith  softly. 

And  as  she  heard  Majendie's  foot  on  the  stairs  Anne 
dried  her  eyes  on  the  birthday  pocket  handkerchief. 

"Here  she  is,"  said  Edith  as  he  entered.  "What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  her  ?  She  doesn't  have  a  birthday 
every  day." 

"I'm  going,"  he  said,  "to  take  her  down  to  breakfast." 

Their  meals  so  abounded  in  occasions  for  courtesy  that 
they  had  become  profoundly  formal.  This  morning 
Anne's  courtesy  was  coloured  by  some  emotion  that  de- 
fied analysis.  She  wore  her  new  mood  like  a  soft  veil 
that  heightened  her  attraction  in  obscuring  it. 

He  watched  her  with  a  baffled  preoccupation  that  kept 
lim  unusually  quiet.  His  quietness  did  him  good  service 
with  Anne  in  her  new  mood. 

When  the  meal  was  over  she  rose  and  went  to  the  win- 
dow. The  sedate  Georgian  street  was  full  of  the  day 
that  shone  soberly  here  from  the  cool  clear  north. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  he. 

"I'm  thinking  what  a  beautiful  day  it  is." 

"Yes,  isn't  it  a  jolly  day?" 

"If  it's  beautiful  here,  what  must  it  be  in  the  country?" 

"The  country?"  A  thought  struck  him.  "I  say,  would 
you  like  to  go  there?" 

"Do  you  mean  to-day?" 

Her  upper  lip  lifted,  and  the  two  teeth  showed  again 
on  the  pale  rose  of  its  twin.  In  spite  of  the  dignity  of 
her  proportions,  Anne  had  the  look  of  a  child  contemplat- 
ing some  hardly  permissible  delight. 

"Now.  this  minute.  There's  a  train  to  Westleydale  at 
nine  fifty." 

"It  would  be  very  nice.     But — how  about  business?" 

"Business  be " 


ioo  The  Helpmate 

"No,  no,  not  that  word." 

"But  it  is,  you  know;  it  can't  help  itself.  There's  a 
devil  in  all  the  offices  in  Scale  at  this  time  of  the  year." 

"Would  you  like  it?" 

"I?    Rather.     I'm  on!" 

"But— Edith— oh  no,  we  can't." 

She  turned  with  a  sudden  gesture  of  renunciation,  so 
that  she  faced  him  where  he  stood  smiling  at  her.  His 
face  grew  grave  for  her. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  mustn't  be  morbid  about 
Edith.  It  isn't  necessary.  All  the  time  we're  gone,  she'll 
lie  there,  in  perfect  bliss  with  simply  thinking  of  the  good 
time  we're,  having." 

"But  her  back's  bad  to-day."  „ 

"Then  she'll  be  glad  that  we're  not  there  to  feel  it. 
Her  back  will  add  to  her  happiness,  if  anything." 

She  drew  in  a  sharp  breath,  as  if  he  had  hurt  her. 

"Oh,  Walter,  how  can  you?" 

He  replied  with  emphasis.  "How  can  I?  I  can,  not 
because  I'm  a  brute,  as  you  seem  to  suppose,  but  because 
she's  a  saint  and  an  angel.  I  take  off  my  hat  and  go 
down  on  my  knees  when  I  think  of  her.  Go  and  put  your 
hat  on." 

She  felt  herself  diminished,  humbled,  and  in  two  ways. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  said :  "You  are  not  the  saint  that 
Edith  is,  nor  yet  the  connoisseur  in  saintship  that  I  am." 

She  knew  that  she  was  not  the  one;  but  to  the  other 
distinction  she  certainly  fancied  that  she  had  the  superior 
claim.  And  she  had  never  yet  come  behind  him  in  appre- 
ciation of  Edith.  Besides,  she  was  hurt  at  being  spoken 
to  in  that  way  on  her  birthday. 

Her  resentment  faded  when  she  found  him  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  by  Edith's  door,  waiting  for  her. 


The  Helpmate  101 

He  looked  up  at  her  as  she  descended,  and  his  eyes 
brightened  with  pleasure  at  the  sight. 

Edith  was  charmed  with  their  plan.  It  might  have 
been  conceived  as  an  exquisite  favour  to  herself,  by  the 
fine  style  in  which  she  handled  it. 

They  set  out,  Majendie  carrying  the  luncheon  basket 
and  Anne's  coat.  He  had  changed,  and  appeared  in  the 
Norfolk  jacket,  knickerbockers,  and  cap  he  had  worn  at 
Scarby.  The  pang  that  struck  her  at  the  sight  of  them 
was  softened  by  her  practical  perception  of  their  fitness 
for  the  adventure.  They  became  him,  too,  and  she  had 
memory  of  the  charm  he  had  once  worn  for  her  with 
that  open-air  attire. 

An  hour's  journey  by  rail  brought  them  to  the  little 
wayside  station.  They  turned  off  the  high  road,  walked 
for  ten  minutes  across  an  upland  field,  and  came  to  the 
bridle-path  that  led  down  into  the  beech-woods  of  West- 
leydale,  in  the  heart  of  the  hills. 

They  followed  a  mossy  trail.  The  shade  fell  thin, 
warm,  and  coloured,  from  leaves  so  tender  that  the  light 
passed  through  their  half-transparent  panes.  Overhead 
there  was  the  delicate  scent  of  green  things  and  of  sap, 
and  underfoot  the  deep  smell  of  moss  and  moistened 
earth. 

Anne  drew  the  deep  breath  of  delight.  She  took  off 
her  hat  and  gloves,  and  moved  forward  a  few  steps  to  a 
spot  where  the  wood  opened  and  the  vivid  light  received 
her.  Majendie  hung  back  to  look  at  her.  She  turned 
and  stood  before  him,  superb  and  still,  shrined  in  a  cres- 
cent of  tall  beech  stems,  column  by  column,  with  the  light 
descending  on  the  fine  gold  of  her  hair.  Nothing  in 
Anne  even  remotely  suggested  a  sylvan  and  primeval 
creature ;  but,  as  she  stood  there  in  her  temperate  and 


IO2  The  Helpmate 

alien  beauty,  she  seemed  to  him  to  have  yielded  to  a  brief 
enchantment.  She  threw  back  her  head,  as  if  her  white 
throat  drank  the  sweet  air  like  wine.  She  held  out  her 
white  hands,  and  let  the  warmth  play  over  them  palpably 
as  a  touch. 

And  Majendie  longed  to  take  her  by  those  white  hands 
and  draw  her  to  him.  If  he  could  have  trusted  her ;  but 
some  instinct  plucked  him  backward,  saying  to  him  :  "Not 
yet." 

A  mossy  rise  under  a  beech-tree  offered  itself  to  Anne 
as  a  suitable  throne  for  the  regal  woman  that  she  was. 
He  spread  out  her  coat,  and  she  made  room  for  him  be- 
side her.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  without  speaking.  The 
powers  which  were  working  that  day  for  Majendie  gave 
to  him  that  subtle  silence.  He  had,  at  most  times,  an 
inexhaustible  capacity  for  keeping  still. 

Above  them,  just  discernible  through  the  tree-tops, 
veiled  by  a  gauze  of  dazzling  air,  the  hill  brooded  in  its 
majestic  dream.  Its  green  arms,  plunging  to  the  valley, 
gathered  them  and  shut  them  in. 

Majendie's  figure  was  not  diminished  by  the  back- 
ground. The  smallest  nervous  movement  on  his  part 
would  have  undone  him,  but  he  did  not  move.  His  pro- 
found stillness,  suggesting  an  interminable  patience,  gave 
him  a  beautiful  immensity  of  his  own. 

Anne,  left  in  her  charmed,  inviolate  circle,  surrendered 
sweetly  to  the  spirit  of  Westleydale. 

The  place  was  peace  folded  upon  the  breast  of  peace. 

Presently  she  spoke,  calling  his  name,  as  if  out  of  the 
far-off  unutterable  peace. 

"Walter,  it  was  kind  of  you  to  bring  me  here." 

"I  am  so  glad  you  like  it." 

"I  do  indeed." 


The  Helpmate  103 

He  tried  to  say  more,  but  his  heart  choked  him. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  the  peace  poured  over  her, 
and  sank  in.  Her  heart  beat  quietly. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  turned  them  on  her  husband. 
She  knew  that  it  was  his  gaze  that  had  compelled  them 
to  open.  She  smiled  to  herself,  like  a  young  girl,  shyly 
but  happily  aware  of  him,  and  turned  from  him  to  her 
contemplation  of  the  woods. 

Anne  had  always  rather  prided  herself  on  her  suscepti- 
bility to  the  beauty  of  nature,  but  it  had  never  before 
reached  her  with  this  poignant  touch.  Hitherto  she  had 
drawn  it  in  with  her  eyes  only;  now  it  penetrated  her 
through  every  nerve.  She  was  vaguely  but  deliciously 
aware  of  her  own  body  as  a  part  of  it,  and  of  her  hus- 
band's joy  in  contemplating  her. 

"He  thinks  me  good-looking,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
the  thought  came  to  her  as  a  revelation. 

Then  her  young  memory  woke  again  and  thrust  at  her. 

"He  thinks  me  good-looking.  That's  why  he  mar- 
ried me." 

She  longed  to  find  out  if  it  were  so. 

"Walter,"  said  she,  "I  want  to  ask  you  a  question." 

"Well — if  it's  an  easy  one." 

"It  isn't — very.     What  made  you  want  to  marry  me?" 

He  paused  a  moment,  searching  for  the  truth. 

"Your  goodness." 

"Is  that  really  true?" 

"To  the  best  of  my  belief,  madam,  it  is." 

"But  there  are  so  many  other  women  better  than  me." 

"Possibly.  I  haven't  been  happy  enough  to  meet 
them." 

"And  if  you  had  met  them?" 

"As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  I  shouldn't  have  fallen  in 


104  The  Helpmate 

love  with  them.  I  shouldn't  have  fallen  in  love  with 
you,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  goodness.  But  I  shouldn't 
have  fallen  in  love  with  your  goodness  in  any  other 
woman." 

"Have  you  known  many  other  women?" 

"One  way  and  another,  in  the  course  of  my  life — yes. 
And  what  I  liked  so  much  about  you  was  your  difference 
from  those  other  women.  You  gave  me  rest  from 
them  and  their  ways.  They  bored  me  even  when  I 
was  half  in  love  with  them,  and  made  me  restless  for 
them  even  when  I  wasn't  a  little  bit.  It  was  as  if  they 
were  always  expecting  something  from  me — I  couldn't 
for  the  life  of  me  tell  what — always  on  the  look  out,  don't 
you  know,  for  some  mysterious  moment  that  never  ar- 
rived." 

She  thought  she  knew.  She  felt  that  he  was  describ- 
ing vaguely  and  with  incomparable  innocence  the  ap- 
proaches of  the  ladies  who  had  once  designed  to  marry 
him.  He  had  never  seen  through  them;  they  (and  they 
must  have  been  so  obvious,  those  ladies)  had  remained 
for  him  inscrutable,  mysterious.  He  could  deal  compe- 
tently with  effects,  but  he  was  not  clever  at  assigning 
causes. 

He  seemed  conscious  of  her  reflections.  "They  were 
quite  nice,  don't  you  know.  Only  they  couldn't  let  you 
alone.  You  let  me  alone  so  perfectly.  Being  with  you 
was  peace." 

"I  see,"  she  said  quietly.    "It  was  peace.    That  was  all." 

"Oh,  was  it?  That  was  only  the  beginning,  if  you 
must  know  how  it  began." 

"It  began,"  she  murmured,  "in  peace.  That  was  what 
struck  you  most  in  me.  I  must  have  seemed  to  you  at 
peace,  then." 


The  Helpmate  105 

"You  did — you  did.     Weren't  you?" 

"I  must  have  been.  But  I've  forgotten.  It's  so  long 
ago.  There's  peace  here,  though.  Why  didn't  we  choose 
this  place  instead  of  Scarby?" 

"I  wish  we  had.  I  say — are  you  never  going  to  for- 
get that  ?" 

"I've  forgiven  it.  I  might  forget  it  if  I  could  only  un- 
derstand." 

"Understand  what?" 

"How  you  could  be  capable  of  caring  for  me — like  that 
— and  yet " 

"But  the  two  things  are  so  entirely  different.  It's 
impossible  to  explain  to  you  how  different.  Heaven  for- 
bid that  you  should  understand  the  difference." 

"I  understand  enough  to  know " 

"You  understand  enough  to  know  nothing.  You  must 
simply  take  my  word  for  it.  Besides,  the  one  thing's 
an  old  thing,  over  and  done  with." 

"Over  and  done  with.  But  if  the  two  things  are  so 
different,  how  can  you  be  sure?" 

"That  sounds  awfully  clever  of  you,  but  I'm  hanged  if 
I  know  what  you  mean." 

"I  mean,  how  can  you  tell  that  it — the  old  thing — :never 
would  come  back  ?" 

It  was  clever  of  her.  He  realised  that  he  had  to  deal 
now  with  a  more  complete  and  complex  creature  than 
Anne  had  been. 

"How  could  it?"  he  asked. 

"If  she  came  back " 

"Never.     And  if  it  did " 

"Ah,  if  it  did " 


"It  couldn't  in  this  case — my  case — your  case- 
"Her  case "  she  whispered. 


io6  The  Helpmate 

"Her  case?  She  hasn't  got  one.  She  simply  doesn't 
exist.  She  might  come  back  as  much  as  she  pleased,  and 
still  she  wouldn't  exist.  Is  that  what  you've  been  afraid 
of  all  the  time  ?" 

"I  never  was  really  afraid  till  now." 

"What  you're  afraid  of  couldn't  happen.  You  can  put 
that  out  of  your  head  for  ever.  If  I  could  mention  you 
in  the  same  sentence  as  that  woman  you  should  know  why 
I  am  so  certain.  As  it  is,  I  must  ask  you  again  to  take 
my  word  for  it." 

He  paused. 

"But,  since  you  have  raised  the  question — and  it's  in- 
teresting, too — I  knew  a  man  once — not  a  'bad'  man — 
to  whom  that  very  thing  did  happen.  And  it  didn't  mean 
that  he'd  left  off  caring  for  his  wife.  On  the  contrary, 
he  was  still  insanely  fond  of  her." 

"What  did  it  mean,  then  ?" 

"That  she'd  left  off  showing  that  she  cared  for  him. 
And  he  cared  more  for  her,  that  man,  after  having  left 
her,  than  he  did  before.  In  its  way  it  was  a  sort  of 
test." 

"I  pray  heaven "  said  Anne ;  but  she  was  too 

greatly  shocked  by  the  anecdote  to  shape  her  prayer. 

Majendie,  feeling  that  the  time,  the  place,  and  her 
mood  were  propitious  for  the  exposition,  went  on. 

"There's  another  man  I  know.  He  was  very  fond  of 
Edie.  He's  fond  of  her  still.  He'll  come  and  sit  for 
hours  playing  backgammon  with  her.  And  yet  all  his 
fondness  for  her  hasn't  kept  him  entirely  straight.  But 
he'd  have  been  as  straight  as  anybody  if  he  could  have 
married  her." 

"But  what  does  all  this  prove  ?" 

"It  proves  nothing,"  he  said  almost  passionately,  "ex- 


The  Helpmate  107 

cept  that  these  two  things,  just  because  they're  different, 
are  not  so  incompatible  as  you  seem  to  think." 

"Did  Edie  care  for  that  man  ?" 

"1  believe  so." 

"Ah,  don't  you  see?  There's  the  difference.  What 
made  Edie  a  saint  made  him  a  sinner." 

"I  doubt  if  Edie  would  look  on  it  quite  in  that  light. 
She  thinks  it  was  uncommonly  hard  on  him." 

"Does  she  know?" 

"Oh,  there's  no  end  to  the  things  that  Edie  knows." 

"And  she  loves  him  in  spite  of  it?" 

"Yes.     I  suppose  there's  no  end  to  that  either." 

No  end  to  her  loving.  That  was  the  secret,  then,  of 
Edie's  peace. 

Anne  meditated  upon  that,  and  when  she  spoke  again 
her  voice  rang  on  its  vibrating,  sub-passionate  note. 

"And  you  said  that  I  gave  you  rest.  You  were  dif- 
ferent." 

He  made  as  if  he  would  draw  nearer  to  her,  and  re- 
frained. The  kind  heart  of  Nature  was  in  league  with 
his.  Nature,  having  foreknowledge  of  her  own  hour, 
warned  him  that  his  hour  was  not  yet. 

And  so  he  waited,  while  Nature,  mindful  of  her  pur- 
pose, began  in  Anne  Majendie  her  holy,  beneficent  work. 
The  soul  of  the  place  was  charged  with  memories,  with 
presciences,  with  prophecies.  A  thousand  woodland  in- 
fluences, tender  timidities,  shy  assurances,  wooed  her 
from  her  soul.  They  pleaded  sweetly,  persistently,  till 
Anne's  brooding  face  wore  the  flush  of  surrender  to  the 
mysteries  of  earth. 

The  spell  was  broken  by  a  squirrel's  scurrying  flight  in 
the  boughs  above  them.  Anne  looked  up,  and  laughed, 
and  their  moment  passed  them  by. 


CHAPTER  X 

RE  you  tired?"  he  asked. 

They  had  walked  about  the  wood,  made  them- 
selves hungry,  and  lunched  like  labourers  at  high  noon. 

"No,  I'm  only  thirsty.  Do  you  think  there's  a  cottage 
anywhere  where  you  could  get  me  some  water?" 

"Yes,  there's  one  somewhere  about.  I'll  try  and  find 
it  if  you'll  sit  here  and  rest  till  I  come  back." 

She  waited.  He  came  back,  but  without  the  water. 
His  eyes  sparkled  with  some  mysterious,  irrepressible 
delight. 

"Can't  you  find  it?" 

"Rather.  I  say,  do  come  and  look.  There's  such  a 
pretty  sight." 

She  rose  and  went  with  him.  Up  a  turning  in  the  dell, 
about  fifty  yards  from  their  tree,  a  long  grassy  way  cut 
sheer  through  a  sheet  of  wild  hyacinths.  It  ran  as  if  be- 
tween two  twin  borders  of  blue  mist,  that  hemmed  it  in 
and  closed  it  by  the  illusion  of  their  approach.  On  either 
side  the  blue  mist  spread,  and  drifted  away  through  the 
inlets  of  the  wood,  and  became  a  rarer  and  rarer  atmos- 
phere, torn  by  the  tree-trunks  and  the  fern.  The  path 
led  to  a  small  circular  clearing,  a  shaft  that  sucked  the 
daylight  down.  It  was  as  if  the  sunshine  were  being 
poured  in  one  stream  from  a  flooded  sky,  and  danced  in 
the  dark  cup  earth  held  for  it.  The  trees  grew  close  and 
tall  round  the  clearing.  Light  dripped  from  their  leaves 
and  streamed  down  their  stems,  turning  their  grey  to  sil- 

108 


The  Helpmate  109 

ver.  The  bottom  of  the  cup  was  a  level  floor  of  grass 
that  had  soaked  in  light  till  it  shone  like  emerald.  A 
stone  cottage  faced  the  path;  so  small  that  a  laburnum 
brushed  its  roof  and  a  may-tree  laid  a  crimson  face 
against  the  grey  gable  of  its  side.  The  patch  of  garden 
in  front  was  stuffed  with  wall-flowers  and  violets.  The 
sun  lay  warm  on  them;  their  breath  stirred  in  the  cup, 
like  the  rich,  sweet  fragrance  of  the  wine  of  day. 

Majendie  grasped  Anne's  arm  and  led  her  forward. 

In  the  middle  of  the  green  circle,  under  the  streaming 
sun,  cradled  in  warm  grass,  a  girl  baby  sat  laughing  and 
fondling  her  naked  feet.  She  laughed  as  she  lay  on  her 
back  and  opened  one  folded,  wrinkled  foot  to  the  sun; 
she  laughed  as  she  threw  herself  forward  and  beat  her 
knees  with  the  outspread  palms  of  her  hands ;  she  laughed 
as  she  rocked  her  soft  body  to  and  fro  from  her  rosy  hips ; 
then  she  stopped  laughing  suddenly,  and  began  crooning 
to  herself  a  delicious,  unintelligible  song. 

"Look,"  said  Majendie,  "that's  what  I  wanted  to  show 
you." 

"Oh — oh — oh "  said  Anne,  and  looked,  and  stood 

stock-still. 

The  beatitude  of  that  adorable  little  figure  possessed 
the  scene.  Green  earth  and  blue  sky  were  so  much  shel- 
ter and  illumination  to  its  pure  and  solitary  joy. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  heart-rending?"  said 
Majendie.  "That  anything  could  be  so  young!" 

Anne  shook  her  head,  dumb  with  the  fascination. 

As  they  approached  again,  the  little  creature  rolled  on 
its  waist,  and  crawled  over  the  grass  to  her  feet. 

"The  little  lamb "  said  she,  and  stooped,  and  lifted 

it. 

It  turned  to  her,  cuddling.     Through  the  thin  muslin 


1 1  o  The  Helpmate 

of  her  bodice  she  could  feel  the  pressure  of  its  tender 
palms. 

Majendie  stood  close  to  her  and  tried  gently  to  detach 
and  possess  himself  of  the  delicate  clinging  fingers.  But 
his  eyes  were  upon  Anne's  eyes.  They  drew  her;  she 
looked  up,  her  eyes  flashed  to  the  meeting-point;  his 
widened  in  one  long  penetrating  gaze. 

A  sudden  pricking  pain  went  through  her,  there  where 
the  pink  and  flaxen  thing  lay  sun-warm  and  life-warm 
to  her  breast. 

At  first  she  did  not  heed  it.  She  stood  hushed,  atten- 
tive to  the  prescience  that  woke  in  her;  surrendered  to 
the  secret,  with  desire  that  veiled  itself  to  meet  its  un- 
veiled destiny. 

Then  the  veil  fell. 

The  eyes  that  looked  at  her  grew  tender,  and  before 
their  tenderness  the  veil,  the  veil  of  her  desire  that  had 
hidden  him  from  her,  fell. 

Her  face  burned,  and  she  hid  it  against  the  child's  face 
as  it  burrowed  into  the  softness  of  her  breast.  When 
she  would  have  parted  the  child  from  her,  it  clung. 

She  laughed.  "Release  me."  And  he  undid  the  cling- 
ing arms,  and  took  the  child  from  her,  and  laid  it  again 
in  the  cradling  grass. 

"It's  conceived  a  violent  passion  for  you,"  said  he. 

"They  always  do,"  said  she  serenely. 

The  door  of  the  cottage  was  open.  The  mother  stood 
on  the  threshold,  shading  her  eyes  and  wondering  at 
them.  She  gave  Anne  water,  hospitably,  in  an  old  china 
cup. 

When  Anne  had  drunk  she  handed  the  cup  to  her  hus- 
band. He  drank  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  over  the  brim, 
and  gave  it  to  her  again.  He  wondered  whether  she 


The  Helpmate  1 1 1 

would  drink  from  it  after  him  (Anne  was  excessively  fas- 
tidious). To  his  intense  satisfaction,  she  drank,  drain- 
ing the  last  drop. 

They  went  back  together  to  their  tree.  On  the  way 
he  stopped  to  gather  wild  hyacinths  for  her.  He  gath- 
ered slowly,  in  a  grave  and  happy  passion  of  pre- 
occupation. Anne  stood  erect  in  the  path  and  watched 
him,  and  laughed  the  girl's  laugh  that  he  longed  to  hear. 

It  was  as  if  she  saw  him  for  the  first  time  through 
Edith's  eyes,  with  so  tender  an  intelligence  did  she  take 
in  his  attitude,  the  absurd,  the  infantile  intentness  of  his 
stooping  figure,  the  still  more  absurdly  infantile  emo- 
tion of  his  hands.  It  was  the  very  same  attitude  which 
had  melted  Edith,  that  unhappy  day  when  they  had 
watched  him  as  he  walked  disconsolate  in  the  garden, 
and  she,  his  wife,  had  hardened  her  heart  against  him. 
She  remembered  Edith's  words  to  her  not  two  hours  ago : 
"If  you  could  only  see  how  unspeakably  sacred  the  hu- 
man part  of  us  is,  and  how  pathetic."  Surely  she  saw. 

The  deep  feeling  and  enchantment  of  the  woods  was 
upon  her.  He  was  sacred  to  her;  and  for  pathos,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  there  was  poured  upon  his  stooping 
body  all  the  pathos  of  all  the  living  creatures  of  God. 

She  saw  deeper.  In  the  illumination  that  rested  on 
him  there,  she  saw  the  significance  of  that  carelessness, 
that  happiness  of  his  which  had  once  troubled  her.  It 
was  simply  that  his  experience,  his  detestable  experience, 
had  had  no  power  to  harm  his  soul.  Through  it  all  he 
had  preserved,  or,  by  some  miracle  of  God,  recovered  an 
incorruptible  innocence.  She  said  to  herself:  "Why 
should  I  not  love  him?  His  heart  must  be  as  pure  as 
the  heart  of  that  little  blessed  child." 

The  warning  voice  of  the  wisdom  she  had  learnt  from. 


1 1 2  The  Helpmate 

him  whispered :  "And  it  rests  with  you  to  keep  him 
so." 

He  led  her  to  her  tree,  where  she  seated  herself  regally 
as  before.  He  poured  his  sheaves  of  hyacinths  as  trib- 
ute into  her  lap.  As  his  hands  touched  hers  her  cold 
face  flushed  again  and  softened.  He  stretched  himself 
beside  her  and  love  stirred  in  her  heart,  unforbidden,  as 
in  a  happy  dream.  He  watched  the  movements  of  her 
delicate  fingers  as  they  played  with  the  tangled  hyacinth 
bells.  Her  hands  were  wet  with  the  thick  streaming 
juice  of  the  torn  stalks;  she  stretched  them  out  to  him 
helplessly.  He  knelt  before  her,  and  spread  his  handker- 
chief on  his  knees,  and  took  her  hands  and  wiped  them. 
She  let  them  rest  in  his  for  a  moment,  and,  with  a  low, 
panting  cry,  he  bowed  his  head  and  covered  them  with 
kisses. 

At  his  cry  her  lips  parted.  And  as  her  soul  had  called 
to  him  across  the  spiritual  ramparts,  so  her  eyes  said  to 
him :  "Come" ;  and  he  knew  that  with  all  her  body  and 
her  soul  she  yearned  to  him  and  consented. 

He  held  her  tight  by  the  wrists  and  drew  her  to  him ; 
and  she  laid  her  arms  lightly  on  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"I'm  glad  now,"  she  whispered,  "that  Edith  didn't  tell 
me.  She  knew  you.  Oh,  my  dear,  she  knew." 

And  to  herself  she  said  proudly :  "It  rests  with  me." 


BOOK   II 


BOOK    II 

CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  October,  five  months  after  Anne's  birthday. 
She  was  not  to  know  again  the  mood  which  deter- 
mined her  complete  surrender.  Supreme  moods  can 
never  be  recaptured  or  repeated.  The  passion  that  in- 
spires them  is  unique,  self-sacrificial,  immortal  only 
through  fruition ;  doomed  to  pass  and  perish  in  its  exalta- 
tion. She  would  know  tenderness,  but  never  just  that 
tenderness ;  gladness,  but  never  that  gladness ;  peace,  but 
never  the  peace  that  possessed  her  in  the  woods  at  West- 
leydale. 

The  new  soul  in  her  moved  steadily,  to  a  rhythm  which 
lacked  the  diviner  thrill  of  the  impulse  which  had  given 
it  birth.  It  was  but  seldom  that  the  moment  revived  in 
memory.  If  Anne  had  accounted  to  herself  for  that  day, 
she  would  have  said  that  they  had  taken  the  nine-fifty 
train  to  Westleydale,  that  they  had  had  a  nice  luncheon, 
that  the  weather  was  exceptionally  fine,  and  that  well, 
yes,  certainly,  that  day  had  been  the  beginning  of  their 
entirely  satisfactory  relations.  Anne's  mind  had  a  tend- 
ency to  lapse  into  the  commonplace  when  not  greatly 
stirred.  Happily  for  her,  she  had  a  refuge  from  it  in 
her  communion  with  the  Unseen. 

Only  at  times  was  she  conscious  of  a  certain  foiled  ex- 
pectancy. For  the  greater  while  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  attained  an  indestructible  spiritual  content. 

"5 


1 1 6  The  Helpmate 

She  conceived  a  profound  affection  for  her  home.  The 
house  in  Prior  Street  became  the  centre  of  her  earthward 
thoughts,  and  she  seldom  left  it  for  very  long.  Her 
health  remained  magnificent ;  her  nature  being  adapted 
to  an  undisturbed  routine,  appeased  by  the  well-ordered, 
even  passage  of  her  days. 

She  had  made  a  household  religion  for  herself,  and 
would  have  suffered  in  departing  from  it.  To  be  always 
down  before  her  husband  for  eight-o'clock  breakfast;  to 
sit  wjth  Edith  from  twelve  till  luncheon  time,  and  in  the 
early  afternoon ;  to  spend  her  evenings  with  her  husband, 
reading  aloud  or  talking,  or  sitting  silent  when  silence 
soothed  him;  these  things  had  become  more  sacred  and 
imperative  than  her  attendance  at  St.  Saviour's.  The 
hours  of  even-song  struck  for  her  no  more. 

For,  above  all,  she  had  made  a  point  of  always  being 
at  home  in  time  for  Majendie's  return  from  his  office. 
At  five  o'clock  she  was  ready  for  him,  beside  her  tea- 
table,  irreproachably  dressed.  Her  friends  complained 
that  they  had  lost  sight  of  her.  Regularly  at  a  quarter 
to  five  she  would  forsake  the  drawing-rooms  of  Thurs- 
ton  Square.  However  absorbing  Mrs.  Eliott's  conversa- 
tion, towards  the  quarter,  the  tender  abstraction  of 
Anne's  manner  showed  plainly  that  her  spirit  had  sur- 
rendered to  another  charm.  Mrs.  Eliott,  in  letting  her 
go,  had  the  air  of  a  person  serenely  sane,  indulgent  to 
a  persistent  and  punctual  obsession.  Anne  divided  her 
friends  into  those  who  understood  and  those  who  didn't. 
Fanny  Eliott  would  never  understand.  But  little  Mrs. 
Gardner,  through  the  immortality  of  her  bridal  spirit, 
understood  completely.  And  for  Anne  Mrs.  Gardner's 
understanding  of  her  amounted  to  an  understanding  of 
her  husband.  Anne's  heart  went  out  to  Mrs.  Gardner. 


The  Helpmate  117 

Not  that  she  saw  much  of  her,  either.  She  had  grown 
impatient  of  interests  that  lay  outside  her  home.  Once 
she  had  decided  to  give  herself  up  to  her  husband,  other 
people's  claims  appeared  as  an  impertinence  beside  that 
perfection  of  possession. 

She  was  less  vividly  aware  of  her  own  perfect  posses- 
sion of  him.  Majendie  was  hardly  aware  of  it  himself. 
His  happiness  was  so  profound  that  he  had  not  yet  meas- 
ured it.  He,  too,  had  slipped  into  the  same  imperturb- 
able routine.  It  was  seldom  that  he  kept  her  waiting 
past  five  o'clock.  He  hated  the  people  who  made  busi- 
ness appointments  with  him  for  that  hour.  His  old  asso- 
ciates saw  little  of  him,  and  his  club  knew  him  no  more. 
He  preferred  Anne's  society  to  that  of  any  other  person. 
They  had  no  more  fear  of  each  other.  He  saw  that  she 
was  beginning  to  forget. 

In  one  thing  only  he  was  disappointed.  The  trembling 
woman  who  had  held  him  in  her  arms  at  Westleydale 
had  never  shown  herself  to  him  again.  She  had  been 
called,  created,  for  an  end  beyond  herself.  The  woman 
he  had  married  again  was  pure  from  passion,  and  of  an 
uncomfortable  reluctance  in  the  giving  and  taking  of 
caresses.  He  forced  himself  to  respect  her  reluctance. 
He  had  simply  to  accept  this  emotional  parsimony  as  one 
of  the  many  curious  facts  about  Anne.  He  no  longer 
went  to  Edith  for  an  explanation  of  them,  for  the  Anne 
he  had  known  in  Westleydale  was  too  sacred  to  be  spoken 
of.  An  immense  reverence  possessed  him  when  he 
thought  of  her.  As  for  the  actual  present  Anne,  loyalty 
was  part  of  the  large  simplicity  of  his  nature,  and  he 
could  not  criticise  her.  Remembering  Westleydale,  he 
told  himself  that  her  blanched  susceptibility  was  tender- 
ness at  white  heat.  If  she  said  little,  he  argued  that  (like 


1 1 8  The  Helpmate 

himself)  she  felt  the  more.  And  at  times  she  could  say 
perfect  things. 

"I  wonder,  Nancy,"  he  once  said  to  her,  "if  you  know 
how  divinely  sweet  your  voice  is?" 

"I  shall  begin  to  think  it  is,  if  you  think  so,"  said  she. 

"And  would  you  think  yourself  beautiful,  if  I  thought 
so?" 

"Very  beautiful.  At  any  rate,  as  beautiful  as  I  want 
to  be." 

He  could  not  control  the  demonstration  provoked  by 
that  admission,  and  she  asked  him  if  he  were  coming 
to  church  with  her  to-morrow. 

His  Nancy  chose  her  moments  strangely. 

But  not  for  worlds  would  he  have  admitted  that  she 
was  deficient  in  a  sense  of  humour.  She  had  her  small 
hilarities  that  passed  for  it.  Keenness  in  that  direction 
would  have  done  violence  to  the  repose  and  sweetness 
of  her  blessed  presence.  The  peace  of  it  remained  with 
him  during  his  hours  of  business. 

Anne  did  not  like  his  business.  But,  in  spite  of  it,  she 
was  proud  of  him,  of  his  appearance,  his  charm,  his  dis- 
tinction, his  entire  superiority  to  even  the  aristocracy 
of  Scale. 

She  no  longer  resented  his  indifference  to  her  friends 
in  Thurston  Square,  since  it  meant  that  he  desired  to  have 
her  to  himself.  Of  his  own  friends  he  had  seen  little, 
and  she  nothing.  If  she  had  not  pressed  Fanny  Eliott 
on  him,  he  had  spared  her  Mrs.  Lawson  Hannay  and 
Mrs.  Dick  Ransome.  She  had  been  fortunate  enough 
to  find  both  these  ladies  out  when  she  returned  their  calls. 
And  Majendie  had  spoken  of  his  most  intimate  friend, 
Charlie  Gorst,  as  absent  on  a  holiday  in  Norway. 

It  was,  therefore,  in  a  mood  of  more  than  usual  conces- 


The  Helpmate  119 

sion  that  she  proposed  to  return,  now  in  October,  the 
second  advance  made  to  her  by  Mrs.  Hannay  in  July. 

Majendie  was  relieved  to  think  that  he  would  no  longer 
be  compelled  to  perjure  himself  on  Anne's  account.  The 
Hannays  had  frequently  reproached  him  with  his  wife's 
unreadiness  in  response,  and  (as  he  had  told  her)  he  had 
exhausted  all  acceptable  explanations  of  her  conduct. 
He  had  "worked"  her  headaches  "for  all  they  were 
worth"  with  Hannay;  for  weeks  he  had  kept  Hannay 's 
wife  from  calling,  by  the  fiction,  discreetly  presented,  of 
a  severe  facial  neuralgia ;  and  his  last  shameless  intima- 
tion, that  Anne  was  "rather  shy,  you  know,"  had  been 
received  with  a  respectful  incredulity  that  left  him  with 
nothing  more  to  say. 

Mrs.  Hannay  was  not  at  home  when  Anne  called,  for 
Anne  had  deliberately  avoided  her  "day."  But  Mrs. 
Hannay  was  irrepressibly  forgiving,  and  Anne  found 
herself  invited  to  dine  at  the  Hannays'  with  her  husband 
early  in  the  following  week.  It  was  hardly  an  hour  since 
she  had  left  Mrs.  Hannay's  doorstep  when  the  pressing, 
the  almost  alarmingly  affectionate  little  note  came  hur- 
rying after  her. 

"I'll  go,  dear,  if  you  really  want  me  to,"  said  she. 

"Well — I  think,  if  you  don't  mind.  The  Hannays  have 
been  awfully  good  to  me." 

So  they  went. 

"Don't  snub  the  poor  little  woman  too  unmercifully," 
was  Edith's  parting  charge. 

"I  promise  you  I'll  not  snub  her  at  all,"  said  Anne. 

"You  can't,"  said  Majendie.  "She's  like  a  soft  sofa 
cushion  with  lots  of  frills  on.  You  can  sit  on  her,  as 
you  sit  on  a  sofa  cushion,  and  she's  as  plump,  and  soft, 
and  accommodating  as  ever  the  next  day." 


1 20  The  Helpmate 

The  Hannays  lived  in  the  Park. 

Majendie  talked  a  great  deal  on  the  way  there.  His 
supporting  and  attentive  manner  was  not  quite  the  stimu- 
lant he  had  meant  it  to  be.  Anne  gathered  that  the  or- 
deal would  be  trying ;  he  was  so  eager  to  make  it  appear 
otherwise. 

"Once  you're  there,  it  won't  be  bad,  you  know,  at  all. 
The  Hannays  are  really  all  right.  They'll  ask  the  very 
nicest  people  they  know  to  meet  you.  They  think  you're 
doing  them  a  tremendous  honour,  you  know,  and  they'll 
rise  to  it.  You'll  see  how  they'll  rise." 

Mrs.  Hannay  had  every  appearance  of  having  risen 
to  it.  Anne's  entrance  (she  was  impressive  in  her  en- 
trances) set  the  standard  high;  yet  Mrs.  Hannay  rose. 
When  agreeably  excited  Mrs.  Hannay  was  accustomed 
to  move  from  one  end  of  her  drawing-room  to  the  other 
with  the  pleasing  and  impalpable  velocity  of  all  soft 
round  bodies  inspired  by  gaiety.  So  exuberant  was  the 
softness  of  the  little  lady  and  so  voluminous  her  flying 
frills,  that  at  these  moments  her  descent  upon  her  guests 
appeared  positively  winged  like  the  descent  of  cheru- 
bim. To-night  she  advanced  slowly  from  her  hearthrug 
with  no  more  than  the  very  slightest  swaying  and  rolling 
of  all  her  softness,  the  very  faintest  tremor  of  her  downy 
wings.  Mrs.  Hannay's  face  was  the  round  face  of  inno- 
cence, the  face  of  a  cherub  with  blown  cheeks  and  lips 
shaped  for  the  trumpet. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Majendie — at  last."  She  retained 
Mrs.  Majendie's  hand  for  the  moment  of  presenting  her 
to  her  husband.  By  this  gesture  she  appropriated  Mrs. 
Majendie.  taking  her  under  her  small  cherubic  wing. 
"Wallie,  how  d'you  do?"  Her  left  hand  furtively  ap- 
propriated Mrs.  Majendie's  husband.  Anne  marked  the 


The  Helpmate  121 

familiarity  with  dismay.  It  was  evident  that  at  the  Han- 
nays'  Walter  was  in  the  warm  lap  of  intimacy. 

It  was  evident,  too,  that  Mr.  Hannay  had  married  con- 
siderably beneath  him.  Anne  owned  that  he  had  a  cer- 
tain dignity,  and  that  there  was  something  rather  pleas- 
ing in  his  loose,  clean-shaven  face.  The  sharp  slender- 
ness  of  youth  was  now  vanishing  in  a  rosy  corpulence, 
corpulence  to  which  Mr.  Hannay  resigned  himself  with- 
out a  struggle.  But  above  it  the  delicate  arch  of  his 
nose  attested  the  original  refinement  of  his  type.  His 
mouth  was  not  without  sweetness,  Mr.  Hannay  being  as 
indulgent  to  other  people  as  he  was  to  himself. 

He  received  Anne  with  a  benign  air ;  he  assured  her  of 
his  delight  in  making  her  acquaintance ;  and  he  refrained 
from  any  allusions  to  the  long  delay  of  his  delight. 

Little  Mrs.  Hannay  was  rolling  softly  in  another  di- 
rection. 

"Canon  Wharton,  let  me  present  you  to  Mrs.  Walter 
Majendie." 

She  had  risen  to  Canon  Wharton.  For  she  had  said 
to  her  husband :  "You  must  get  the  Canon.  She  can't 
think  us  such  a  shocking  bad  lot  if  we  have  him."  Her 
face  expressed  triumph  in  the  capture  of  Canon  Wharton, 
triumph  in  the  capture  of  Mrs.  Walter  Majendie,  triumph 
in  the  introduction.  Owing  to  the  Hannays'  determina- 
tion to  rise  to  it,  the  dinner-party,  in  being  rigidly  select, 
was  of  necessity  extremely  small. 

"Miss  Mildred  Wharton — Sir  Rigley  Barker — Mr. 
Gorst.  Now  you  all  know  each  other." 

The  last  person  introduced  had  lingered  with  a  certain 
charming  diffidence  at  Mrs.  Majendie's  side.  He  was  a 
man  of  about  her  husband's  age,  or  a  little  younger,  fair 
and  slender,  with  a  restless,  flushed  face  and  brilliant  eyes. 


122  The  Helpmate 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  a  pleasure  this  is,  Mrs. 
Majendie." 

He  had  an  engaging  voice  and  a  still  more  engaging 
smile. 

"You  may  have  heard  about  me  from  your  husband. 
I  was  awfully  sorry  to  miss  you  when  I  called  before  I 
went  to  Norway.  I  only  came  back  this  morning,  but  I 
made  Hannay  invite  me." 

Anne  murmured  some  suitable  politeness.  She  said 
afterwards  that  her  instinct  had  warned  her  against  Mr. 
Gorst,  with  his  restlessness  and  brilliance ;  but,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  her  instinct  had  done  nothing  of  the  sort,  and 
his  manners  had  prejudiced  her  in  his  favour.  Fanny 
Eliott  had  told  her  that  he  belonged  to  a  very  old  Lin- 
colnshire family.  There  was  a  distinction  about  him. 
And  he  really  had  a  particularly  engaging  smile. 

So  she  received  him  amiably;  so  amiably  that  Majen- 
die, who  had  been  observing  their  encounter  with  an  in- 
tent and  rather  anxious  interest,  appeared  finally  reas- 
sured. He  joined  them,  releasing  himself  adroitly  from 
Sir  Rigley  Barker. 

"How's  Edith  ?"  said  Mr.  Gorst. 

His  use  of  the  name  and  something  in  his  intonation 
made  Anne  attentive. 

"She's  better,"  said  Majendie.  "Come  and  see  her 
soon." 

"Oh,  rather.  I'll  come  round  to-morrow.  If,"  he 
added,  "Mrs.  Majendie  will  permit  me." 

"Mrs.  Majendie,"  said  her  husband,  "will  be  de- 
lighted." 

Anne  smiled  assent.  Her  amiability  extended  even  to 
Mrs.  Hannay,  who  had  risen  to  it,  so  far,  well. 

During  dinner  Anne  gave  her  attention  to  her  right- 


The  Helpmate  123 

hand  neighbour,  Canon  Wharton;  and  Mrs.  Hannay, 
looking  down  from  her  end  of  the  table,  saw  her  selec- 
tion justified.  In  rising  to  the  Canon  she  had  risen  her 
highest;  for  the  ex-member  hardly  counted;  he  was  a 
fallen  star.  But  Canon  Wharton,  the  Vicar  of  All  Souls, 
stood  on  an  eminence,  social  and  spiritual,  in  Scale.  He 
had  built  himself  a  church  in  the  new  quarter  of  the  town, 
and  had  filled  it  to  overflowing  by  the  power  of  his  elo- 
quence. Lawson  Hannay,  in  a  moment  of  unkind  in- 
sight, had  described  the  Canon  as  "a  speculative  builder" ; 
but  he  lent  him  money  for  his  building,  and  liked  him 
none  the  less. 

Out  of  the  pulpit  the  Vicar  of  All  Souls  was  all  things 
to  all  men.  In  the  pulpit  he  was  nothing  but  the  Vicar 
of  All  Souls.  He  stood  there  for  a  great  light  in  Scale, 
"holding,"  as  he  said,  "the  light,  carrying  the  light,  bat- 
tling for  light  in  the  darkness  of  that  capital  of  commerce, 
that  stronghold  of  materialism,  founded  on  money,  built 
up  in  money,  cemented  with  money !"  He  snarled  out 
the  word  "money,"  and  flung  it  in  the  face  of  his  fashion- 
able congregation ;  he  gnashed  his  teeth  over  it ;  he  shook 
his  fist  at  them ;  and  they  rose  to  his  mood,  delighting  in 
little  Tommy  Wharton's  pluck  in  "giving  it  them  hot." 
He  was  always  giving  it  them  hot,  warming  himself  at 
his  own  fire.  And  then  little  Tommy  Wharton  slipped 
out  of  his  little  surplice  and  his  little  cassock,  and  into  the 
Hannays'  house  for  whiskey  and  soda.  He  could  drink 
peg  for  peg  with  Lawson  Hannay,  without  turning  a  hair, 
while  poor  Lawson  turned  many  hairs,  till  his  little  wife 
ran  in  and  hid  the  whiskey  and  shook  her  handkerchief 
at  the  little  Canon,  and  "shooed"  him  merrily  away. 
And  Lawson,  big,  good-natured  Lawson,  would  lend  him 
more  "money"  to  build  his  church  with. 


1 24  The  Helpmate 

So  the  Vicar  of  All  Souls,  who  aspired  to  be  all  things 
to  all  men,  was  hand  in  glove  with  the  Lawson  Hannays. 
He  had  occasionally  been  known  to  provide  for  the  tables 
of  the  poor,  but  he  dearly  loved  to  sit  at  the  tables  of 
the  rich;  and  he  justified  his  predilection  by  the  highest 
example. 

Anne,  who  knew  the  Canon  by  his  spiritual  reputation 
only,  turned  to  him  with  interest.  Her  eye,  keen  to  dis- 
cern these  differences,  saw  at  once  that  he  was  a  man  of 
the  people.  He  had  the  unfinished  features,  the  stunted 
form  of  an  artisan ;  his  body  sacrificed,  his  admirers  said, 
to  the  energies  of  his  mighty  brain.  His  face  was  a 
heavy,  powerful  oval,  bilious-coloured,  scarred  with  deep 
lines,  and  cleft  by  the  wide  mouth  of  an  orator,  a  mouth 
that  had  acquired  the  appearance  of  strength  through 
the  Canon's  habit  of  bringing  his  lips  together  with  a 
snap  at  the  close  of  his  periods.  His  eyes  were  a  strange, 
opaque  grey,  but  the  clever  Canon  made  them  seem  al- 
most uncomfortably  penetrating  by  simply  knitting  his 
eyebrows  in  a  savage  pent-house  over  them.  They  now 
looked  forth  at  Anne  as  if  the  Canon  knew  very  well  that 
her  soul  had  a  secret,  and  that  it  would  not  long  be  hid- 
den from  him. 

They  talked  about  the  Eliotts,  for  the  Canon's  catho- 
licity bridged  the  gulf  between  Thurston  Square  and  vo- 
ciferous, high-living,  fashionable  Scale.  He  had  lately 
succeeded  (by  the  power  of  his  eloquence)  in  winning 
over  Mrs.  Eliott  from  St.  Saviour's  to  All  Souls.  He 
hoped  also  to  win  over  Mrs.  Eliott's  distinguished  friend. 
For  the  Canon  was  mortal.  He  had  yielded  to  the  un- 
spiritual  seduction  of  filling  All  Souls  by  emptying  other 
men's  churches.  Lawson  Hannay  smiled  on  the  parson's 
success,  hoping  (he  said)  to  see  his  money  back  again. 


The  Helpmate  125 

Money  or  no  money,  he  left  him  a  clear  field  with  Mrs. 
Majendie.  Ladies,  when  they  were  pretty,  appealed  to 
Lawson  as  part  of  the  appropriate  decoration  of  a  table ; 
but,  much  as  he  loved  their  charming  society,  he  loved 
his  dinner  more.  He  loved  it  with  a  certain  pure  extrav- 
agance, illuminated  by  thought  and  imagination.  Mrs. 
Hannay  was  one  with  him  in  this  affection.  Her  heart 
shared  it;  her  fancy  ministered  to  it,  rising  higher  and 
higher  in  unwearying  flights.  It  was  a  link  between 
them;  almost  (so  fine  was  the  passion)  an  intellectual 
tie.  But  reticence  was  not  in  Hannay's  nature;  and  his 
emotion  affected  Anne  very  unpleasantly.  She  missed 
the  high  lyric  note  in  it.  All  epicurean  pleasures,  even 
so  delicate  and  fantastic  a  joy  as  Hannay's  in  his  dinner, 
appeared  gross  to  Anne. 

Majendie  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  caught  sight  of 
her  detached,  unhappy  look,  and  became  detached  and 
unhappy  himself,  till  Mrs.  Hannay  rallied  him  on  his 
abstraction. 

"If  you  are  in  love,  my  dear  Wallie,"  she  whispered, 
"you  needn't  show  it  so  much.  It's  barely  decent." 

"Isn't  it?  Anyhow,  I  hope  it's  quite  decently  bare," 
he  answered,  tempted  by  her  folly.  They  were  gay  at 
Mrs.  Hannay's  end  of  the  table.  But  Anne,  who 
watched  her  husband  intently,  looked  in  vain  for  that 
brilliance  which  had  distinguished  him  the  other  night, 
when  he  dined  in  Thurston  Square.  These  Hannays, 
she  said  to  herself,  made  him  dull. 

Now,  though  Anne  didn't  in  the  least  want  to  talk  to 
Mr.  Hannay,  Mr.  Hannay  displeased  her  by  not  wanting 
to  talk  more  to  her.  Not  that  he  talked  very  much  to 
anybody.  Now  and  then  the  Canon's  niece,  Mildred 
Wharton,  the  pretty  girl  on  his  left,  moved  him  to  a  high 


126  The  Helpmate 

irrelevance,  in  those  rare  moments  when  she  was  not  ab- 
sorbed in  Mr.  Gorst.  Pretty  Mildred  and  Mr.  Gorst 
were  flirting  unabashed  behind  the  roses,  and  it  struck 
Anne  that  the  Canon  kept  an  alarmed  and  watchful  eye 
upon  their  intercourse. 

To  Anne  the  dinner  was  intolerably  long.  She  tried 
to  be  patient  with  it,  judging  that  its  length  was  a  meas- 
ure of  the  height  her  hosts  had  risen  to.  There  she 
did  them  an  injustice;  for  in  the  matter  of  a  menu  the 
Hannays  could  not  rise;  for  they  lived  habitually  on  a 
noble  elevation. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  table  Mrs.  Hannay  called  gaily 
on  her  guests  to  eat  and  drink.  But,  when  the  wine 
went  round,  Anne  noticed  that  she  whispered  to  the  but- 
ler, and  after  that,  the  butler  only  made  a  feint  of  filling 
his  master's  glass,  and  turned  a  politely  deaf  ear  to  his 
protests.  And  then  her  voice  rose. 

"Lawson,  that  pineapple  ice  is  delicious.  Gould,  hand 
the  pineapple  ice  to  Mr.  Hannay.  I  adore  pineapple 
ice,"  said  Mrs.  Hannay.  "Wallie,  you're  drinking  noth- 
ing. Fill  Mr.  Majendie's  glass,  Gould,  fill  it— fill  it." 
She  was  the  immortal  soul  of  hospitality,  was  Mrs. 
Hannay. 

In  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Hannay  again  took  posses- 
sion of  Anne  and  led  her  to  the  sofa.  She  fairly  en- 
throned her  there ;  she  hovered  round  her ;  she  put  cush- 
ions at  her  head,  and  more  cushions  under  her  feet;  for 
Mrs.  Hannay  liked  to  be  comfortable  herself,  and  to  see 
every  one  comfortable  about  her.  "You  come,"  said  she, 
"and  sit  down  by  me  on  this  sofa,  and  let's  have  a  cosy 
talk.  That's  it.  Only  you  want  another  cushion.  No? 
— Do — Won't  you  really?  Then  it's  four  for  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Hannay,  supporting  herself  in  various  postures  of 


The  Helpmate  127 

experimental  comfort,  "one  for  my  back,  two  for  my  fat 
sides,  and  one  for  my  head.  Now  I'm  comfy.  I  adore 
cushions,  don't  you  ?  My  husband  says  I'm  a  little  down 
cushion  myself,  so  I  suppose  that's  why." 

Anne,  in  her  mood,  had  crushed  many  innocent  vul- 
garities before  now ;  but  she  owned  that  she  could  no 
more  have  snubbed  Mrs.  Hannay  effectually  than  you 
could  snub  a  little  down  cushion.  It  would  be  impossi- 
ble, she  thought,  to  make  any  impression  at  all  on  that 
yielding  surface.  Impossible  to  take  any  impression 
from  her,  to  say  where  her  gaiety  ended  and  her  vul- 
garity began. 

"Isn't  it  funny?"  the  little  lady  went  on,  unconscious 
of  Mrs.  Majendie's  attitude.  My  husband's  your  hus- 
band's oldest  friend.  So  I  think  you  and  I  ought  to  be 
friends  too." 

Anne's  face  intimated  that  she  hardly  considered  the 
chain  of  reasoning  unbreakable;  but  Mrs.  Hannay  con- 
tinued to  play  cheerful  elaborations  on  the  theme  of 
friendship,  till  her  husband  appeared  with  the  other  three 
men.  He  had  his  hand  on  Majendie's  shoulder,  and 
Mrs.  Hannay's  soft  smile  drew  Mrs.  Majendie's  attention 
to  this  manifestation  of  intimacy.  And  it  dawned  on 
Anne  that  Mrs.  Hannay's  gaiety  would  not  end  here; 
though  it  was  here,  with  the  mixing  of  the  company,  that 
her  vulgarity  would  begin. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  pair?  I  tell  Lawson  he's 
fonder  of  Wallie  than  he  is  of  me.  I  believe  he'd  go 
down  on  his  knees  and  black  his  boots  for  nothing,  if  he 
asked  him.  I'd  do  it  myself,  only  you  mustn't  tell  Law- 
son  I  said  so."  She  paused.  "I  think  Lawson  wants  to 
come  and  have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

Hannay  approached  heavily,  and  his  wife  gave  up  her 


128  The  Helpmate 

place  to  him,  cushions  and  all.  He  seated  himself  heavily. 
His  eyes  wandered  heavily  to  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
following  Majendie.  And  as  they  rested  on  his  friend 
there  was  a  light  in  them  that  redeemed  their  heaviness. 

He  had  come  to  Mrs.  Majendie  prepared  for  weighty 
utterance. 

"That  man,"  said  Hannay,  "is  the  best  man  I  know. 
You've  married,  dear  lady,  my  dearest  and  most  intimate 
friend.  He's  a  saint — a  Bayard."  He  flung  the  name 
at  her  defiantly,  and  with  a  gesture  he  emphasised  the 
crescendo  of  his  thought.  "A  preux  chevalier,  sans 
penr,"  said  Mr.  Hannay,  "et  sans  reproche." 

Having  delivered  his  soul,  he  sat,  still  heavily,  in 
silence. 

Anne  repressed  the  rising  of  her  indignation.  To  her 
it  was  as  if  he  had  been  defending  her  husband  against 
some  accusation  brought  by  his  wife. 

And  so,  indeed,  he  was.  Poor  Hannay  had  been 
conscious  of  her  attitude — conscious  under  her  pure  and 
austere  eyes,  of  his  own  shortcomings,  and  it  struck  him 
that  Majendie  needed  some  defence  against  her  judg- 
ment of  his  taste  in  friendship. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  the  Majendies,  Mr.  Gorst 
was  left  the  last  lingering  guest. 

"Poor  Wallie,"  said  Mrs.  Hannay. 

"Poor  Wallie,"  said  Mr.  Hannay,  and  sighed. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?"  said  the  lady  to  Mr. 
Gorst. 

"Oh,  I  think  she's  magnificent." 

"Do  you  think  he'll  be  able  to  live  up  to  it?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Mr.  Gorst  cheerfully. 

"Well,  it  wasn't  very  gay  for  him  before  he  married, 
and  I  don't  imagine  it's  going  to  be  any  gayer  now." 


The  Helpmate  129 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Hannay,  "I  understand  what's  meant 
by  the  solemnisation  of  holy  matrimony.  That  woman 
would  solemnise  a  farce  at  the  Vaudeville,  with  Gwen 
Richards  on." 

"She  very  nearly  solemnised  my  dinner,"  said  Mrs. 
Hannay. 

"She  doesn't  know,"  said  Mr.  Hannay,  "what  a  dinner 
is.  She's  got  no  appetite  herself,  and  she  tried  to  take 
mine  away  from  me.  A  regular  dog-in-the-manger  of 
a  woman." 

"Oh,  come,  you  know,"  said  Gorst.  "She  can't  be  as 
bad  as  all  that.  Edith's  awfully  fond  of  her." 

"And  that's  good  enough  for  you  ?"  said  Mrs.  Hannay. 

"Yes.  That's  good  enough  for  me.  7  like  her,"  said 
Gorst  stoutly;  and  Mrs.  Hannay  hid  in  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  a  face  quivering  with  mirth. 

But  Gorst,  as  he  departed,  turned  on  the  doorstep  and 
repeated,  "Honestly,  I  like  her." 

"Well,  honestly,"  said  Mr.  Hannay,  "I  don't."  And, 
lost  in  gloomy  forebodings  for  his  friend,  he  sought  con- 
solation in  whiskey  and  soda. 

Mrs.  Hannay  took  a  seat  beside  him. 

"And  what  did  you  think  of  the  dinner  ?"  said  she. 

"It  was  a  dead  failure,  Pussy." 

"You  old  stupid,  I  mean  the  dinner,  not  the  dinner- 
party." 

Mrs.  Hannay  rubbed  her  soft,  cherubic  face  against 
his  sleeve,  and  as  she  did  so  she  gently  removed  the 
whiskey  from  his  field  of  vision.  She  was  a  woman  of  ex- 
quisite tact. 

"Oh,  the  dinner,  my  plump  Pussy-cat,  was  a  dream — 
a  happy  dream." 


CHAPTER    XII 

'  '  I  VHERE   are  moments,   I  admit,"  said   Majendie, 
"when  Hannay  saddens  me." 

Anne  had  drawn  him  into  discussing  at  breakfast-time 
their  host  and  hostess  of  the  night  before. 

"Shall  you  have  to  see  very  much  of  them?"  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  see  very  little,  or 
nothing,  of  the  Hannays. 

"Well,  I  haven't,  lately,  have  I?"  said  he,  and  she 
owned  that  he  had  not. 

"How  you  ever  could "  she  began,  but  he  stopped 

her. 

"Oh  well,  we  needn't  go  into  that." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  something  dark  and 
undesirable  behind  those  words,  something  into  which 
she  could  well  conceive  he  would  not  wish  to  go.  It 
never  struck  her  that  he  merely  wished  to  put  an  end  to 
the  discussion. 

She  brooded  over  it,  and  became  dejected.  The  great 
tide  of  her  trouble  had  long  ago  ebbed  out  of  her  sight. 
Now  it  was  as  if  it  had  turned,  somewhere  on  the  edge 
of  the  invisible,  and  was  creeping  back  again.  She 
wished  she  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  the  Hannays — 
detestable  people. 

She  betrayed  something  of  this  feeling  to  Edith,  who 
was  impatient  for  an  account  of  the  evening.  (It  was 
thus  that  Edith  entered  vicariously  into  life.) 

130 


The  Helpmate  131 

"Did  you  expect  me  to  enjoy  it?"  she  replied  to  the 
first  eager  question. 

"No,  I  don't  know  that  I  did.  7  should  have  enjoyed 
it  very  much  indeed." 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

"Was  there  anybody  there  that  you  disliked  so  much  ?" 

"The  Hannays  were  there.     It  was  enough." 

"You  liked  Mr.  Gorst?" 

"Yes.     He  was  different." 

"Poor  Charlie.     I'm  glad  you  liked  him." 

"I  don't  like  him  any  better  for  meeting  him  there,  my 
dear." 

"Don't  say  that  to  Walter,  Nancy." 

"I  have  said  it.  How  Walter  can  care  for  those  people 
is  a  mystery  to  me." 

"He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  if  he  didn't.  Law- 
son  Hannay  has  been  a  good  friend  to  him." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he's  under  any  obligation  to  him?" 

"Yes.  Obligations,  my  dear,  that  none  of  us  can  ever 
repay." 

"It's  intolerable !"  said  Anne.  ' 

"Is  it?  Wait  till  you  know  what  the  obligations  are. 
That  man  you  dislike  so  much  stood  by  Walter  when 
your  friends  the  Eliotts,  my  child,  turned  their  virtuous 
backs  on  him — when  none  of  his  own  people,  even,  would 
lend  him  a  helping  hand.  It  was  Lawson  Hannay  who 
saved  him." 

"Saved  him?" 

"Saved  him.  Moved  heaven  and  earth  to  get  him  out 
of  that  woman's  clutches." 

Anne  shook  her  head,  and  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes 
to  dispel  her  vision  of  him.  Edith  laughed. 

"You  can't  see  Mr.  Hannay  moving  heaven?" 


132  The  Helpmate 

"No,  really  I  can't." 

"Well,  7  saw  him.  At  least,  if  he  didn't  move  heaven, 
he  moved  earth.  When  nothing  else  could  shake  her 
hold,  he  bought  her  off." 

"Bought— her— off?" 

"Yes,  bought  her — paid  her  money  to  go.  And  she 
went." 

"He  owes  him  money,  then?" 

"Money,  and  a  great  many  other  things  beside.  You 
don't  like  it?" 

"I  can't  bear  it." 

"Of  course  you  can't.  It  hurts  your  pride.  It  hurt 
mine  badly.  But  my  pride  has  had  to  go  down  in  the 
dust  before  Lawson  Hannay." 

Anne  raised  her  head  as  if  she  refused  to  lower  her 
pride  an  inch  to  him.  She  was  trying  to  put  the  whole 
episode  behind  her,  as  it  had  come  before  her.  She  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it.  Edith,  of  course,  had 
to  be  grateful.  She  was  not  bound  by  the  same  obliga- 
tion. But  she  was  determined  that  they  should  be  quit 
of  the  Hannays.  She  would  make  Walter  pay  back  that 
money. 

Meanwhile  Edith's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  recol- 
lection. "Lawson  Hannay  may  not  have  been  a  very 
good  man  himself — I  believe  at  one  time  he  wasn't.  But 
he  loved  his  friend,  and  he  didn't  want  to  see  him  going 
the  same  way." 

"The  same  way?  That  means  that,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Mr.  Hannay,  he  would  never  have  met  her." 

"Mr.  Hannay  did  his  best  to  prevent  his  meeting  her. 
He  knew  what  she  was,  and  Walter  didn't.  He  took 
him  off  in  his  yacht  for  weeks  at  a  time,  to  get  him  out 
of  her  way.  When  she  followed  him  he  brought  him 


The  Helpmate  133 

back.  When  she  persecuted  him — well,  I've  told  you 
what  he  did." 

Anne  lifted  her  hand  in  supplication,  and  rose  and 
went  to  the  open  window,  as  if,  after  that  recital,  she 
thirsted  for  fresh  air.  Edith  smiled,  in  spite  of  herself, 
at  her  sister-in-law's  repudiation  of  the  subject. 

"Poor  Mr.  Hannay,"  said  she,  "the  worst  you  can  say 
of  him  now  is  that  he  eats  and  drinks  a  little  more  than's 
good  for  him." 

"And  that  he's  married  a  wife  who  sets  him  the  exam- 
ple," said  Anne,  returning  from  the  window-sill  re- 
freshed. 

"She  keeps  him  straight,  dear." 

"Edith !  I  shall  never  understand  you.  You're  an- 
gelically good.  But  it's  horrible,  the  things  you  take  for 
granted.  'She  keeps  him  straight !'  " 

"You  think  I  take  for  granted  a  natural  tendency  to 
crookedness.  I  don't — I  don't.  What  I  take  for  granted 
is  a  natural  tendency  to  straightness,  when  it  gets  its 
way.  It  doesn't  always  get  it,  though,  especially  in  a 
town  like  Scale." 

"I  wish  we  were  out  of  it." 

"So  did  I,  dear,  once;  but  I  don't  now.  We  must 
make  the  best  of  it." 

"Has  Walter  paid  any  of  that  money  back  to  Mr. 
Hannay?" 

Edith  looked  up  at  her  sister-in-law,  startled  by  the 
hardness  in  her  voice.  She  had  meant  to  spare  Anne's 
pride  the  worst  blow,  but  something  in  her  question 
stirred  the  fire  that  slept  in  Edith. 

"No,"  she  said,  "he  hasn't.  He  was  going  to,  but  Mr. 
Hannay  cancelled  the  debt,  in  order  that  he  might  marry 
— that  he  might  marry  you." 


134  The  Helpmate 

Anne  drew  back  as  if  Edith  had  struck  her  bodily. 
She,  then,  had  been  bought,  too,  with  Mr.  Hannay's 
money.  Without  it,  Walter  could  not  have  afforded  to 
marry  her;  for  she  was  poor. 

She  sat  silent,  until  her  self-appointed  hour  with  Edith 
ended;  and  then,  still  silently,  she  left  the  room. 

And  Edith  turned  her  cheek  on  her  cushions  and 
sobbed  weakly  to  herself.  "Walter  would  never  forgive 
me  if  he  knew  I'd  told  her  that.  It  was  awful  of  me. 
But  Anne  would  have  provoked  the  patience  of  a 
saint." 

Anne  owned  that  Edith  was  a  saint,  and  that  the  provo- 
cation was  extreme. 

In  the  afternoon,  Edith,  at  her  own  request,  was  for- 
given, and  Anne,  by  way  of  proving  and  demonstrating 
her  forgiveness,  announced  her  amiable  intention  of  call- 
ing on  Mrs.  Hannay  on  her  "day." 

The  day  fell  within  a  week  of  the  dinner.  It  was 
agreed  that  Majendie  was  to  meet  his  wife  at  the  Han- 
nays,  and  to  take  her  home.  There  was  a  good  mile 
between  Prior  Street  and  the  Park;  and  Anne  was  a 
leisurely  walker;  so  it  happened  that  she  was  late,  and 
that  Majendie  had  arrived  a  few  minutes  before  her. 
She  did  not  notice  him  there  all  at  once.  Mrs.  Hannay 
was  a  sociable  little  lady;  the  radius  of  her  circle  was 
rapidly  increasing,  and  her  "day"  drew  crowds.  The 
lamps  were  not  yet  lit,  and  as  Anne  entered  the  room, 
it  was  dim  to  her  after  the  daylight  of  the  open  air.  She 
had  counted  on  an  inconspicuous  entrance,  and  was  as- 
tonished to  find  that  the  announcement  of  her  name  caused 
a  curious  disturbance  and  division  in  the  assembly.  A  finer 
ear  than  Anne's  might  have  detected  an  ominous  sound, 
something  like  the  rustling  of  leaves  before  a  storm.  But 


The  Helpmate  135 

Anne's  self-possession  rendered  her  at  times  insensible 
to  changes  in  the  social  atmosphere.  In  any  case  the 
slight  commotion  was  no  more  than  she  had  come  pre- 
pared for  in  a  whole  roomful  of  ill-bred  persons. 

"Pussy,"  said  a  lady  who  stood  near  Mrs.  Hannay. 
Mrs.  Hannay  had  her  back  to  the  doorway.  The  lady's 
voice  rang  on  a  low  note  of  warning,  and  she  brought  her 
mouth  close  to  Mrs.  Hannay's  ear. 

The  hostess  started,  turned,  and  came  at  once  towards 
Mrs.  Majendie,  rolling  deftly  between  the  persons  who 
obstructed  her  perturbed  and  precipitate  way.  The  per- 
fect round  of  her  cheeks  had  dropped  a  little ;  it  was  the 
face  of  a  poor  cherub  in  vexation  and  dismay. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Majendie," — her  voice,  once  so  triumphant, 
had  dropped  too,  almost  to  a  husky  whisper, — "how  very 
good  of  you." 

She  led  her  to  a  sofa,  the  seat  of  intimacy,  set  back  a 
little  from  the  central  throne.  (Majendie  could  be  seen 
fairly  immersed  in  the  turmoil,  struggling  desperately 
through  it,  with  a  plate  in  his  hand.) 

Mrs.  Hannay  was  followed  by  her  husband,  by  the 
other  lady,  and  by  Gorst.  She  introduced  the  other  lady 
as  Mrs.  Ransome,  and  they  seated  themselves,  one  on 
each  side  of  Anne.  The  two  men  drew  up  in  front  of 
the  sofa,  and  began  to  talk  very  fast,  in  loud  tones  and 
with  an  unnatural  gaiety.  The  women,  too,  closed  in 
upon  her  somewhat  with  their  knees;  they  were  both  a 
little  confused,  both  more  than  a  little  frightened,  and 
the  manner  of  both  was  mysteriously  apologetic. 

Anne,  with  her  deep,  insulating  sense  of  superiority, 
had  no  doubt  as  to  the  secret  of  the  situation.  She  felt 
herself  suitably  protected,  guarded  from  contact,  screened 
from  view,  distinguished  very  properly  from  persons  to 


136  The  Helpmate 

whom  it  was  manifestly  impossible,  even  for  Mrs.  Han- 
nay,  to  introduce  her.  She  was  very  sorry  for  poor 
Mrs.  Hannay,  she  tried  to  make  it  less  difficult  for  her, 
by  ignoring  the  elements  of  confusion  and  fright.  But 
poor  Mrs.  Hannay  kept  on  being  frightened ;  she  re- 
fused to  part  with  her  panic  and  be  natural.  So  terrified 
was  she,  that  she  hardly  seemed  to  take  in  what  Mrs. 
Majendie  was  saying. 

Anne,  however,  conversed  with  the  utmost  amiability, 
while  her  thoughts  ran  thus :  "Dear  lady,  why  this  agi- 
tation? You  cannot  help  being  vulgar.  As  for  your 
friends,  what  do  you  think  I  expected?" 

The  other  lady,  Mrs.  Dick  Ransome,  could  not  be  held 
accountable  for  anything  but  her  own  private  vulgarity ; 
and  it  struck  Anne  as  odd  that  Mrs.  Dick  Ransome,  who 
was  not  responsible  for  Mrs.  Hannay,  seemed,  if  any- 
thing, more  terrified  than  Mrs.  Hannay,  who  was  re- 
sponsible for  her. 

Mrs.  Dick  Ransome  did  not,  at  the  first  blush,  inspire 
confidence.  She  was  a  woman  with  a  great  deal  of 
blonde  hair,  and  a  fresh-coloured,  conspicuously  unspir- 
itual  face;  coarse-grained,  thick-necked,  ruminantly  ani- 
mal, but  kind;  kind  to  Mrs.  Hannay,  kind  to  Anne, 
kinder  even  than  Mrs.  Hannay  who  was  responsible  for 
all  the  kindness. 

Charlie  Gorst  hurried  away  to  get  Mrs.  Majendie  some 
tea,  and  Lawson's  Hannay's  large  form  moved  into  the 
gap  thus  made,  blocking  Anne's  view  of  the  room.  He 
stood  looking  down  upon  her  with  an  extraordinary 
smile  of  mingled  apology  and  protection.  Gorst's  return 
was  followed  by  Majendie,  wandering  uneasily  with  his 
plate.  He  smiled  at  Anne,  too;  and  his  smile  conveyed 
the  same  suggestion  of  desperation  and  distress.  It  was 


The  Helpmate  137 

as  if  he  said  to  her:  "I'm  sorry  for  letting  you  in  for 
such  a  crew,  but  how  can  I  help  it?"  She  smiled  back 
at  him  brightly,  as  much  as  to  say:  "Don't  mind.  It 
amuses  me.  I'm  taking  it  all  in." 

He  wandered  away,  and  Anne  felt  that  the  women  ex- 
changed looks  across  her  shoulders. 

"I  think  I'll  be  going,  Pussy  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ransome, 
nodding  some  secret  intelligence.  She  elbowed  her  way 
gently  across  the  room,  and  came  back  again,  shaking 
her  head  hopelessly  and  helplessly.  "She  says  I  can  go 
if  I  like,  but  she'll  stay,"  said  Mrs.  Ransome  under  her 
breath. 

"Oh-h-h,"  said  Mrs.  Hannay  under  hers. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  said  Mrs.  Ransome,  flurried  into 
audible  speech. 

"Stay — stay.  It's  much  better."  Mrs.  Hannay 
plucked  her  husband  by  the  sleeve,  and  he  lowered  an 
attentive  ear.  Mrs.  Ransome  covered  the  confidence 
with  a  high-pitched  babble. 

"You  find  Scale  a  very  sociable  place,  don't  you,  Mrs. 
Majendie?"  said  Mrs.  Ransome. 

"Go,"  said  Mrs.  Hannay,  "and  take  her  off  into  the 
conservatory,  or  somewhere." 

"More  sociable  in  the  winter-time,  of  course. '  (Mrs. 
Ransome,  in  her  agitation,  almost  screamed  it.) 

"I  can't  take  her  off  anywhere,  if  she  won't  go,"  said 
Mr.  Hannay  in  a  thick  but  penetrating  whisper.  He 
collapsed  into  a  chair  in  front  of  Anne,  where  he  seemed 
to  spread  himself,  sheltering  her  with  his  supine,  benig- 
nant gaze. 

Mrs.  Hannay  was  beside  herself,  beholding  his  inver- 
tebrate behaviour.  "Don't  sit  down,  stupid.  Do  some- 
thing— anything." 


138  The  Helpmate 

He  went  to  do  it,  but  evidently,  whatever  it  was,  he  had 
no  heart  for  it. 

A  maid  came  in  and  lit  a  lamp.  There  was  a  simul- 
taneous movement  of  departure  among  the  nearer 
guests. 

"Oh,  heavens,"  said  Mrs.  Hannay,  "cjon't  tell  me 
they're  all  going  to  go !" 

Anne,  serenely  contemplating  these  provincial  man- 
ners, was  bewildered  by  the  horror  in  Mrs.  Hannay's 
tone.  There  was  no  accounting  for  provincial  manners, 
or  she  would  have  supposed  that  Mrs.  Hannay,  mortified 
by  the  presence  of  her  most  undesirable  acquaintance, 
would  have  rejoiced  to  see  them  go. 

Their  dispersal  cleared  a  space  down  the  middle  of  the 
room  to  the  bay-window,  and  disclosed  a  figure,  a  wom- 
an's figure,  which  occupied,  majestically,  a  settee.  The 
settee,  set  far  back  in  the  bay  of  the  window,  was  in  a 
direct  line  with  Anne's  sofa.  That  part  of  the  room  was 
still  unlighted,  and  the  figure,  sitting  a  little  sideways, 
remained  obscure. 

A  servant  went  round  lighting  lamps. 

The  first  lamp  to  be  lit  stood  beside  Anne's  sofa.  The 
effect  of  the  illumination  was  to  make  the  lady  in  the 
window  turn  on  her  settee.  Across  the  space  between, 
her  eyes,  obscure  lights  in  a  face  still  undefined,  swept 
with  the  turning  of  her  body,  and  fastened  upon  Anne's 
face,  bared  for  the  first  time  to  their  view.  They  re- 
mained fixed,  as  if  Anne's  face  had  a  peculiar  fascination 
for  them. 

"Who  is  the  lady  sitting  in  the  window  ?"  asked  Anne. 

"It's  my  sister."  Mrs.  Ransome  blinked  as  she  an- 
swered, and  her  blood  ran  scarlet  to  the  roots  of  her 
blonde  hair. 


The  Helpmate  139 

A  cherub,  discovering  a  horrible  taste  in  his  trumpet, 
would  have  looked  like  Mrs.  Hannay. 

"Do  let  me  give  you  some  more  tea,  Mrs.  Majendie?" 
said  she,  while  Mrs.  Ransome  signalled  to  her  husband, 
"Here,  Dick,  come  and  make  yourself  useful." 

Mr.  Ransome,  a  little  stout  man  with  a  bald  head,  a 
pale  puffy  face,  a  twinkling  eye  and  a  severe  moustache, 
was  obedient  to  her  summons. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  she,  "have  you  met  Mrs.  Ma- 
jendie?" 

"I  have  not  had  that  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Ransome,  and 
bowed  profoundly.  He  waited  assiduously  on  Mrs.  Ma- 
jendie. The  Ransomes  might  have  been  responsible  for 
the  whole  occasion,  they  so  rallied  around  and  supported 
her. 

Hannay  and  Gorst,  Ransome  and  another  man  were 
gathered  together  in  a  communion  with  the  lady  of  the 
settee.  There  was  a  general  lull,  and  her  voice,  a  voice 
of  sweet  but  somewhat  penetrating  quality,  was  heard. 

"Don't  talk  to  me,"  said  she,  "about  women  being  jeal- 
ous of  each  other.  Do  you  suppose  I  mind  another 
woman  being  handsome?  I  don't  care  how  handsome 
she  is,  so  long  as  she  isn't  handsome  in  my  style.  Of 
course,  I  don't  say  I  could  stand  it  if  she  was  the  very 
moral  of  me." 

"I  say,  supposing  Toodles  met  the  very  moral  of  her- 
self?" 

"Could  Toodles  have  a  moral  ?     I  doubt  it." 

"I  want  to  know  what  she'd  do  with  it." 

"Yes,  by  Jove,  what  would  you  do?" 

"Do?  I  should  do  my  worst.  I  should  make  her  sit 
somewhere  with  a  good  strong  light  on  her." 

"Hold  hard  there,"  said  her  brother-in-law  (the  man 


14°  rhe  Helpmate 

who  called  her  Toodles),  "Lady  Cayley  doesn't  want  that 
lamp  lit  just  yet." 

In  the  silence  of  the  rest,  the  name  seemed  to  leap 
straight  across  the  room  to  Anne. 

The  two  women  beside  her  heard  it,  and  looked  at  each 
other  and  at  her.  Anne  sickened  under  their  eyes,  struck 
suddenly  by  the  meaning  of  their  protection  and  their 
sympathy.  She  longed  to  rise,  to  sweep  them  aside  and 
go.  But  she  was  kept  motionless  by  some  superior  in- 
stinct of  disdain. 

Outwardly  she  appeared  in  no  way  concerned  by  this 
revelation  of  the  presence  of  Lady  Cayley.  She  might 
never  have  heard  of  her,  for  any  knowledge  that  her 
face  betrayed. 

Majendie,  not  far  from  the  settee  in  the  window,  was 
handing  cucumber  sandwiches  to  an  old  lady.  And 
Lady  Cayley  had  taken  the  matches  from  the  maid  and 
was  lighting  the  lamp  herself,  and  was  saying,  "I'm  not 
afraid  of  the  light  yet,  I  assure  you.  There — look  at 
me." 

Everybody  looked  at  her,  and  she  looked  at  everybody, 
as  she  sat  in  the  lamplight,  and  let  it  pour  over  her.  She 
seemed  to  be  offering  herself  lavishly,  recklessly,  trium- 
phantly, to  the  light. 

Lady  Cayley  was  a  large  woman  of  thirty-seven,  who 
had  been  a  slender  and  a  pretty  woman  at  thirty.  She 
would  have  been  pretty  still  if  she  had  been  a  shade  less 
large.  She  had  tiny  upward-tilted  features  in  her  large 
white  face;  but  the  lines  of  her  jaw  and  her  little  round 
prominent  chin  were  already  vanishing  in  a  soft  envelop- 
ing fold,  flushed  through  its  whiteness  with  a  bloom  that 
was  a  sleeping  colour.  Her  forehead  and  eyelids  were 
exceedingly  white,  so  white  that  against  them  her  black 


The  Helpmate  141 

eyebrows  and  blue  eyes  were  vivid  and  emphatic.  Her 
head  carried  high  a  Gainsborough  hat  of  white  felt,  with 
black  plumes  and  a  black  line  round  its  brim.  Under  its 
upward  and  its  downward  curve  her  light  brown  hair 
was  tossed  up,  and  Curled,  and  waved,  and  purled  into  an 
appearance  of  great  exuberance  and  volume.  Exuber- 
ance and  volume  were  the  note  of  this  lady,  a  note  sub- 
dued a  little  by  the  art  of  her  dressmaker.  A  gown  of 
smooth  black  cloth  clung  to  her  vast  form  without  a 
wrinkle,  sombre,  severe,  giving  her  a  kind  of  slenderness 
in  stoutness.  She  wore  a  white  lace  vest  and  any  quan- 
tity of  lace  ruffles,  any  number  of  little  black  velvet  lines 
and  points  set  with  paste  buttons.  And  every  ruffle, 
every  line,  every  point  and  button  was  an  accent,  empha- 
sising some  beauty  of  her  person. 

And  Anne  looked  at  Lady  Cayley  once  and  no  more. 

It  was  enough.  The  trouble  that  she  had  put  from  her 
came  again  upon  her,  no  longer  in  its  merciful  immensity, 
faceless  and  formless  (for  she  had  shrunk  from  picturing 
Lady  Cayley),  but  boldly,  abominably  defined.  She 
grasped  it  now,  the  atrocious  tragedy,  made  visible  and 
terrible  for  her  in  the  body  of  Lady  Cayley,  the  phantom 
of  her  own  horror  made  flesh. 

A  terrible  comprehension  fell  on  her  of  that  body,  of 
its  power,  its  secret,  and  its  sin. 

For  the  first  moment,  when  she  looked  from  it  to  her 
husband,  her  mind  refused  to  associate  him  with  that 
degradation.  Reverence  held  her,  and  a  sudden  memory 
of  her  passion  in  the  woods  at  Westleydale.  Mercifully, 
they  veiled  her  intelligence,  and  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  realise  that  he  should  have  sunk  so  low. 

Then  she  remembered.  She  had  known  that  it  was, 
that  it  would  be  so,  that,  sooner  or  later,  the  woman 


142  The  Helpmate 

would  come  back.  Her  brain  conceived  a  curious  two- 
fold intuition  of  the  fact. 

It  was  all  foreappointed  and  foreknown,  that  she 
should  come  to  this  hateful  house,  and  should  sit  there, 
and  that  her  eyes  should  be  opened  and  that  she  should 
see. 

And  the  woman's  voice  rose  again.  "Do  I  see  cucum- 
ber sandwiches?"  said  Lady  Cayley.  "Dick,  go  and  tell 
Mr.  Majendie  that  if  he  doesn't  want  all  those  sandwiches 
himself,  I'll  have  one." 

Ransome  gave  the  message,  and  Majendie  turned  to 
the  lady  of  the  settee,  presenting  the  plate  with  the  finest 
air  of  abstraction.  Her  large  arm  hovered  in  selec- 
tion long  enough  for  her  to  shoot  out  one  low  quick 
speech. 

"I  only  wanted  to  see  if  you'd  cut  me,  Wallie.  Topsy 
bet  me  two  to  ten  you  wouldn't." 

"Why  on  earth  should  I?" 

"Oh,  on  earth  I  know  you  wouldn't.  But  didn't  I  hear 
just  now  you'd  married  and  gone  to  heaven?" 

"Gone  to ?" 

"Sh — sh — sh — I'm  sure  she  doesn't  let  you  use  those 
naughty  words.  You  needn't  say  you're  not  in  heaven, 
for  I  can  see  you  are.  You  didn't  expect  to  meet  me 
there,  did  you?" 

"I  certainly  didn't  expect  to  meet  you  here." 

"How  can  you  be  so  rude?  Dick,  take  that  tiresome 
plate  from  him,  he  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  Yes. 
I'll  have  another  before  it  goes  away  for  ever." 

Majendie  had  given  up  the  plate  before  he  realised  that 
he  was  parting  with  the  link  that  bound  him  to  the  outer 
world.  He  turned  instantly  to  follow  it  there;  but  she 
saw  his  intention  and  frustrated  it. 


The  Helpmate  143 

"Butter?  Ugh!  You  might  hold  my  cup  for  me 
while  I  take  my  gloves  off." 

She  peeled  two  skin-tight  gloves  from  her  plump 
hands,  so  carefully  that  the  operation  gave  her  all  the 
time  she  wanted. 

"I  believe  you're  still  afraid  of  me?"  said  she. 

He  was  doing  his  best  to  look  over  her  head ;  but  she 
smiled  a  smile  so  flashing  that  it  drew  his  eyes  to  her 
involuntarily;  he  felt  it  as  positively  illuminating  their 
end  of  the  room. 

"You're  not?     Well,  prove  it." 

"Is  it  possible  to  prove  anything  to  you?" 

Again  he  was  about  to  break  from  her  impatiently. 
Nothing,  he  had  told  himself,  would  induce  him  to  stay 
and  talk  to  her.  But  he  saw  Anne's  face  across  the  room ; 
it  was  pale  and  hard,  fixed  in  an  expression  of  implacable 
repulsion.  And  she  was  not  looking  at  Lady  Cayley,  but 
at  him. 

"You  can  prove  it,"  said  Lady  Cayley,  "to  me  and 
everybody  else — they're  all  looking  at  you — by  sitting 
down  quietly  for  one  moment,  and  trying  to  look  a  little 
less  as  if  we  compromised  each  other." 

He  stayed,  to  prove  his  innocence  before  Anne ;  and  he 
stood,  to  prove  his  independence  before  Lady  Cayley. 
He  had  longed  to  get  away  from  the  woman,  to  stand 
by  his  wife's  side — to  take  her  out  of  the  room,  out  of 
the  house,  into  the  open  air.  And  now  the  perversity 
that  was  in  him  kept  him  where  he  hated  to  be. 

"That's  right.  Thank  heaven  one  of  us  has  got  some 
presence  of  mind." 

"Presence  of  mind?" 

"Yes.  You  don't  seem  to  think  of  me,'1  she  added 
softly. 


144  The  Helpmate 

"Why  should  I?"  he  replied  with  a  brutality  that  sur- 
prised himself. 

She  looked  at  him  with  blue  eyes  softly  suffused,  and 
the  curve  of  a  red  mouth  sweet  and  tremulous.  "Why  ?" 
her  whisper  echoed  him.  "Because  I'm  a  woman." 

Her  eyelids  dropped  ever  so  little,  but  their  dark  lashes 
(following  the  upward  trend  of  her  features)  curled  to 
such  a  degree  that  the  veil  was  ineffectual.  He  saw  a 
large  slit  of  the  wonderful,  indomitable  blue. 

"I'm  a  woman,  and  you're  a  man,  you  see;  and  the 
world's  on  your  side,  my  friend,  not  on  mine." 

She  said  it  sweetly.  If  she  had  been  bitter  she  would 
have  (as  she  expressed  it)  "choked  him  off" ;  but  Lady 
Cayley  knew  better  than  to  be  bitter  now,  at  thirty-seven. 
She  had  learnt  that  her  power  was  in  her  sweetness. 

His  face  softened  (from  the  other  end  of  the  room 
Anne  saw  it  soften),  and  Lady  Cayley  pursued  with 
soundless  feet  her  fugitive  advantage. 

"Poor  Wallie,  you  needn't  look  so  frightened.  I'm 
quite  safe  now,  or  soon  will  be.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was 
going  there  too?  I'm  going  to  be  married." 

"I'm  delighted  to  hear  it,"  he  said  stiffly. 

"To  a  perfect  angel,"  said  she. 

"Really?  If  you're  going  up  to  heaven,  he,  I  take 
it,  is  not  coming  down  to  earth." 

"Nothing  is  settled,"  said  Lady  Cayley,  with  such  mon- 
strous gravity  that  his  stiffness  melted,  and  he  laughed 
outright. 

Anne  heard  him. 

"Who,  if  I  may  ask,  is  this  celestial,  this  transcendent 
being?" 

She  shook  her  head.     "I  can't  tell  you,  yet." 

"What,  isn't  even  that  settled?" 


The  Helpmate  145 

Majendie  was  so  genuinely  diverted  at  that  moment 
that  he  would  not  have  left  her  if  he  could. 

She  took  the  sting  of  it,  and  flushed,  dumbly.  Re- 
morse seized  him,  and  he  sought  to  soothe  her. 

"My  dear  lady,  I  had  a  vision  of  heavenly  hosts  stand- 
ing round  you  in  such  quantities  that  it  might  be  difficult 
to  make  a  selection,  you  know." 

She  rallied  finely  under  the  reviving  compliment.  "My 

dear,  it's  a  case  of  quality,  not  quantity "  Her  past 

was  so  present  to  them  both  that  he  almost  understood 
her  to  say,  "this  time." 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "The  wings.  But  nothing's  set- 
tled?" 

"It's  settled  right  enough,"  said  she,  by  which  he  un- 
derstood her  to  imply  that  the  "angel's"  case  was.  She 
had  settled  him.  Majendie  could  see  her  doing  it.  His 
imagination  played  lightly  with  the  preposterous  idea. 
He  conceived  her  in  the  act  of  bringing  down  her  bird 
of  heaven,  actually  "winging  him." 

"But  it's  not  given  out  yet." 

"I  see." 

"You're  the  first  I've  told,  except  Topsy.  Topsy 
knows  it.  So  you  mustn't  tell  anybody  else." 

"I  never  tell  anybody  anything,"  said  he. 

He  gathered  that  it  was  not  quite  so  settled  as  she 
wished  him  to  suppose,  and  that  Lady  Cayley  anticipated 
some  possible  dashing  of  the  cup  of  matrimony  from  her 
lips. 

"So  I'm  not  to  have  panics,  in  the  night,  and  palpita- 
tions, every  time  I  think  of  it?" 

"Certainly  not,  if  it  rests  with  me." 

"I  wanted  you  to  know.  But  it's  so  precious,  I'm 
afraid  of  losing  it.  Nothing,"  said  Lady  Cayley,  "can 


146  The  Helpmate 

make  up  for  the  loss  of  a  good  man's  love.  Except," 
she  added,  "a  good  woman's." 

"Quite  so,"  he  assented  coldly,  with  horror  at  his  per- 
ception of  her  drift. 

His  coldness  riled  her. 

"Who,"  said  she  with  emphasis,  "is  the  lady  who  keeps 
making  those  awful  eyes  at  us  over  Pussy's  top-knot?" 

"That  lady,"  said  Majendie,  "as  it  happens,  is  my 
wife." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before?  That's  what 
comes,  you  see,  of  not  introducing  people.  I'll  tell  you 
one  thing,  Wallie.  She's  awfully  handsome.  But  you  al- 
ways had  good  taste.  Br-r-r,  there's  a  draught  cutting 
my  head  off.  You  might  shut  that  window,  there's  a 
dear." 

He  shut  it. 

"And  put  my  cup  down." 

He  put  it  down. 

Anne  saw  him.     She  had  seen  everything. 

"And  help  me  on  with  my  cape." 

He  lifted  the  heavy  sable  thing  with  two  fingers,  and 
helped  her  gingerly.  A  scent,  horrid  and  thick,  and 
profuse  with  memories,  was  shaken  from  her  as  she 
turned  her  shoulder.  He  hoped  she  was  going.  But 
she  was  not  going;  not  she.  Her  body  swayed  towards 
him  sinuously  from  hips  obstinately  immobile,  weighted, 
literally,  with  her  unshakable  determination  to  sit  on. 

She  rewarded  him  with  a  smile  which  seemed  to  him, 
if  anything,  more  atrociously  luminous  than  the  last.  "I 
must  keep  you  up  to  the  mark,"  said  she,  as  she  turned 
with  it.  "Your  wife's  looking  at  you,  and  I  feel  respon- 
sible for  your  good  behaviour.  Don't  keep  her  waiting. 
Can't  you  see  she  wants  to  go?" 


The  Helpmate  147 

"And  I  want  to  go,  too,"  said  he  savagely.  And  he 
went. 

And  as  she  watched  Mrs.  Walter  Majendie's  departure, 
Lady  Cayley  smiled  softly  to  herself;  tasting  the  first 
delicious  flavour  of  success. 

She  had  made  Mrs.  Walter  Majendie  betray  herself; 
she  had  made  her  furious ;  she  had  made  her  go. 

She  had  sat  Mrs.  Walter  Majendie  out. 

If  the  town  of  Scale,  the  mayor  and  the  aldermen, 
had  risen  and  given  her  an  ovation,  she  could  not  have 
celebrated  more  triumphally  her  return. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A^NE  and  her  husband  walked  home  in  silence 
across  the  Park,  grateful  for  its  darkness.  Ma- 
jendie  could  well  imagine  that  she  would  not  want  to  talk. 
He  made  allowance  for  her  repulsion;  he  respected  it 
and  her  silence  as  its  sign.  She  had  every  right  to  her 
resentment.  He  had  let  her  in  for  the  Hannays,  who 
had  let  her  in  for  the  inconceivable  encounter.  On  the 
day  of  her  divorce  Sarah  Cayley  had  removed  herself 
from  Scale,  and  he  had  shrunk  from  providing  for  the 
supreme  embarrassment  of  her  return.  He  had  looked 
on  her  as  definitely,  consummately  departed.  She  had 
disappeared,  down  dingy  vistas,  into  unimaginable  ob- 
scurities. He  pictured  her  as  sunk,  in  Continental 
abysses,  beyond  all  possibility  of  resurgence.  And  she 
had  emerged  (from  abominations)  smiling  that  inde- 
structible smile.  The  incident  had  been  unpleasant,  so 
unpleasant  that  he  didn't  want  to  talk  about  it.  All  the 
same,  he  would  have  done  violence  to  his  feelings  and 
apologised  for  it  then  and  there,  but  that  he  really  judged 
it  better  to  let  well  alone.  It  was  well,  he  thought,  that 
Anne  was  so  silent.  She  might  have  had  a  great  deal 
to  say,  and  it  was  kind  of  her  not  to  say  it,  to  let  him  off 
so  easily. 

Anne's  interpretation  of  Majendie's  silence  was  not  so 
favourable.  After  being  exposed  to  the  pain  and  insult 
of  Lady  Cayley's  presence  she  had  expected  an  immediate 
apology,  and  she  inferred  from  its  omission  an  unpardon- 

148 


The  Helpmate  149 

able  complicity.  Any  compliance  with  the  public  tolera- 
tion of  that  person  would  have  been  inexcusable,  and  he 
had  been  more  than  compliant,  more  than  tolerant;  he 
had  been  solicitous,  attentive,  deferent.  And  deference 
to  such  a  woman  was  insolence  to  his  wife.  Anne  was 
struck  dumb  by  the  shameless  levity  of  the  proceedings. 
The  two  had  behaved  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  or 
rather  (she  bitterly  corrected  herself)  as  if  everything 
had  happened,  and  might  happen  any  day  again  (she  in- 
ferred as  much  from  his  silence).  It  would — it  would 
happen.  Her  intentions  were,  to  Anne's  mind,  unmis- 
takable ;  that  was  plainly  what  she  had  come  back  for. 
As  to  his  intentions,  Anne  was  not  yet  clear.  She  had 
not  made  up  her  mind  that  they  were  bad ;  but  she  shud- 
dered as  she  said  to  herself  that  he  was  "weak."  He 
had  come  at  that  woman's  call ;  he  had  hung  round  her ; 
he  had  waited  on  her  at  her  bidding;  at  her  bidding  he 
had  sat  down  beside  her ;  he  had  listened  to  her,  attracted, 
charmed,  delighted ;  he  had  talked  to  her  in  the  low  voice 
Anne  knew.  How  could  she  tell  what  had  or  had  not 
passed  between  them  there,  what  intimacies,  what  recog- 
nitions, what  resurrections  of  the  corrupt,  ill-buried  past  ? 
He  had  been  "weak — weak — weak."  Henceforth  she 
must  reckon  with  his  weakness,  and  reckoning  with  it, 
she  must  keep  him  from  that  woman  by  any  method, 
and  at  any  cost !  It  was  something  that  he  had  the  grace 
to  be  ashamed  of  himself  (another  inference  from  his 
silence).  No  wonder,  after  that  communion,  if  he  was 
ashamed  to  look  at  his  wife  or  speak  to  her. 

He  went  straight  to  Edith  when  they  reached  home, 
and  Anne  went  upstairs  to  her  bedroom. 

She  had  a  great  desire  to  be  alone.  She  wanted  to 
pray,  as  she  had  prayed  in  that  room  at  Scarby  on  the 


150  The  Helpmate 

morning  of  her  discovery.  Not  that  she  felt  in  the  least 
as  she  had  felt  then.  She  was  more  profoundly  wounded 
— wounded  beyond  passion  and  beyond  tears,  calm  and 
self-contained  in  her  vision  of  the  inevitable,  the  fore- 
ordained reality.  She  had  to  get  rid  of  her  vision;  it 
was  impossible  to  live  with  it,  impossible  to  live  through 
another  hour  like  the  last.  Her  desire  to  pray  was  a 
terrible,  urgent  longing  that  consumed  her,  impatient  of 
every  minute  that  kept  her  from  her  prayer.  She 
controlled  it,  moving  slowly  as  she  took  off  her  outdoor 
clothes  and  put  them  decorously  away;  feeling  that  the 
force  of  her  prayer  gathered  and  mounted  behind  these 
minute  obstructions  and  delays. 

She  knelt  down  by  her  bed.  She  had  been  used  to 
pray  there  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  crucifix  which 
he  had  given  her.  It  hung  low,  almost  between  the  pil- 
lows of  their  bed.  Now  she  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  it 
from  her  sight.  It  was  then  that  she  realised  what  had 
been  done  to  her.  With  the  closing  of  her  eyes  she 
opened  some  back  room  in  her  brain,  a  hot  room,  now 
dark,  and  now  charged  with  a  red  light,  vaporous  and 
vivid,  that  ran  in  furious  pulses,  as  it  were  the  currents 
of  her  blood  made  visible.  The  room  thus  opened  was 
tenanted  by  the  revolting  image  of  Lady  Cayley.  Now 
it  loomed  steadily  in  the  dark,  now  it  leapt  quiveringly 
into  the  red,  vaporous  light.  She  could  not  see  her  hus- 
band, but  she  had  a  sickening  sense  that  he  was  there, 
looming,  and  that  his  image,  too,  would  leap  into  sight 
at  some  signal  of  her  unwilling  thought.  She  knew  that 
that  back  room  would  remain,  built  up  indestructibly  in 
the  fabric  of  her  mind.  It  would  be  set  apart  for  ever 
for  the  phantom  of  her  husband  and  her  husband's  mis- 
tress. By  a  tremendous  effort  of  will  she  shut  the  door 


The  Helpmate  151 

on  it.  There  it  must  be  for  ever,  but  wherever  she 
looked,  she  would  not  look  there;  much  less  allow  her- 
self to  dwell  in  the  unclean  place.  It  was  not  to  think 
of  that  woman,  his  mistress,  that  she  had  gone  down  on 
her  knees.  To  think  of  her  was  contamination.  After 
all,  the  woman  had  no  power  over  her  inner  life.  She 
was  not  forced  to  think  of  her.  She  had  her  sanctuary 
and  her  way  of  escape. 

But  before  she  could  get  there  she  had  to  struggle 
against  the  fatigue  which  came  of  her  effort  not  to  think. 
Once  she  would  have  resigned  herself  to  this  physical 
lassitude,  mistaking  it  for  the  sinking  of  the  soul  in  the 
beatific  self-surrender.  But  Anne's  sufferings  had 
brought  her  a  little  further  on  her  path.  She  had  come 
to  recognise  that  supine  state  as  a  great  danger  to  the 
spiritual  life.  It  was  not  by  lassitude,  but  by  concentra- 
tion that  the  intense  communion  was  attained.  She  lifted 
her  bowed  head  as  a  sign  of  her  exaltation. 

And  as  she  lifted  it,  she  caught,  as  it  were,  the  approach 
of  triumphal  music.  Words  gathered,  as  on  wings,  from 
the  clean-swept  heavenly  spaces — they  went  by  her  like 
the  passing  of  an  immense  processional:  "Lift  up  your 
heads,  O  ye  gates,  and  be  ye  lifted  up,  ye  everlasting 
doors,  and  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in.  ..."  It 
came  on,  that  heavenly  invasion,  and  all  her  earthly  bar- 
riers went  down  before  it.  And  it  was  as  if  something 
strong  in  her,  something  solitary  and  pure,  had  cloven 
its  way  through  the  mesh  of  the  throbbing  nerves, 
through  the  beating  currents  of  the  blood,  through  the 
hot  red  lights  of  the  brain,  and  had  escaped  into  the 
peaceful  blank.  She  remained  there  a  moment,  in  the 
place  of  bliss,  the  divine  place  of  the  self-surrendered 
soul,  where  mortal  emptiness  draws  down  immortality. 


152  The  Helpmate 

She  said  to  herself,  "I  have  my  refuge;  no  one  can 
take  it  from  me.  Nothing  matters  so  long  as  I  can  get 
there." 

She  rose  from  her  knees  more  calm  and  self-contained 
than  ever,  barely  conscious  of  her  wound. 

So  calm  and  so  self-contained  was  she  at  dinner  that 
Majendie  had  an  agreeable  rebound;  he  supposed  that 
she  had  recovered  from  the  abominable  encounter,  and 
had  put  Lady  Cayley  out  of  her  head  like  a  sensible 
woman.  Edith  had  received  his  account  of  that  incident 
with  a  gravity  that  had  made  him  profoundly  uncomfort- 
able; and  his  relief  was  in  proportion  to  his  embarrass- 
ment. Unfortunately  it  gave  him  the  appearance  of 
complacency;  and  complacency  in  the  circumstances  was 
more  than  Anne  could  bear.  Coming  straight  from  her 
exaltation  and  communion,  she  was  crushed  by  the  pro- 
found, invisible  difference  that  separated  them,  the  per- 
petual loneliness  of  her  unwedded,  unsubjugated  soul. 
They  lived  a  whole  earth  and  a  whole  heaven  apart.  He 
was  untouched  by  the  fires  that  burnt  and  purified  her. 
The  tragic  crises  that  destroyed,  the  spiritual  moments 
that  built  her  up  again,  passed  by  him  unperceived.  If 
she  were  to  tell  him  how  she  had  attained  her  present 
serenity  of  mind,  by  what  vision,  by  what  effort,  by  what 
sundering  of  body  and  soul,  he  would  not  understand. 

And  that  was  not  the  worst.  She  had  learnt  not  to 
look  for  that  spiritual  understanding  in  him.  It  mattered 
little  that  her  unique  suffering  and  her  unique  consola- 
tion should  remain  alike  ignored.  The  terrible  thing 
was  that  he  should  have  come  out  of  his  own  ordeal  so 
smiling  and  so  unconcerned ;  that  he  could  have  sinned 
as  he  had  sinned,  and  that  he  could  meet,  after  seven 
years,  in  his  wife's  presence,  the  partner  of  his  sin  (whose 


The  Helpmate  153 

face  was  a  revelation  of  its  grossness) — meet  her,  and 
not  be  shaken  by  the  shame  of  it.  It  showed  how  lightly 
he  held  it,  how  low  his  standard  was.  She  recalled, 
shuddering,  the  woman's  face.  Nothing  in  the  visions 
she  had  so  shrunk  from  could  compare  with  the  violent 
reality.  For  one  moment  of  repulsion  she  saw  him  no 
less  gross.  She  wondered,  would  she  have  to  reckon 
with  that,  henceforth,  too? 

She  looked  up,  and  met  across  the  table  the  engaging 
innocence  that  she  recognised  as  the  habitual  expression 
of  his  face.  He  had  no  idea  of  what  dreadful  things 
she  was  thinking  of  him.  She  put  her  thoughts  from 
her,  admitting  that  she  had  never  had  to  reckon  with 
that,  yet.  But  it  was  terrible  to  her  that,  while  he  forced 
her  to  such  thinking,  he  could  sit  there  so  unconscious, 
and  so  unashamed.  He  sat  there,  bright-eyed,  smiling, 
a  little  flushed,  playing  with  a  light  topic  in  a  manner  that 
suggested  a  conscience  singularly  at  ease.  He  went  on 
sitting  there,  absolutely  unembarrassed,  eating  dessert. 
The  eating  of  dinner  was  bad  enough,  it  showed  com- 
placency. But  dessert  argued  callousness.  She  had 
wondered  how  he  could  have  any  appetite  at  all.  Her 
dinner  had  almost  choked  her. 

And  she  sat  waiting  for  him  to  finish,  hardly  looking 
at  him,  detached,  saint-like,  and  still. 

At  last  her  silence  struck  him  as  a  little  ominous.  He 
had  distinct  misgivings  as  they  turned  into  the  study  for 
coffee  and  his  cigarette.  Anne  sat  up  in  her  chair,  re- 
fusing the  support  and  luxury  of  cushions,  leaning  a  lit- 
tle forward  with  a  brooding  air. 

"Well,  Nancy,"  said  he,  "are  you  going  to  read  to  me  ?" 

(Better  to  read  than  talk.) 

"Not  now,"  said  she.    "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 


154  The  Helpmate 

He  saw  that  it  was  not  to  be  avoided.  "Won't  you  let 
me  have  my  coffee  and  a  cigarette  first?" 

She  waited,  silent,  with  a  strained  air  of  patience  more 
uncomfortable  than  words. 

"Well,"  said  he,  lighting  a  second  cigarette,  and  set- 
tling in  the  position  that  would  best  enable  him  to  bear 
it,  "out  with  it,  and  get  it  over." 

"I  want  to  know,"  said  she,  "what  you  are  going  to 
do." 

"To  do?"     He  was  genuinely  bewildered. 

"Yes,  to  do." 

"But  about  what?" 

"About  that  woman." 

He  was  so  charmed  with  the  angelic  absurdity  of  the 
question  that  he  paused  while  he  took  it  in,  smiling. 

"I  can't  see,"  he  said  presently,  "that  I'm  called  upon 
to  take  action.  Why  should  I?" 

She  drew  herself  up  proudly. 

"For  my  sake." 

He  was  instantly  grave.  "For  your  sake,  dear,  I 
would  do  a  great  deal.  But" — he  smiled  again — "what 
action  should  I  take?" 

"Is  it  for  me  to  say?" 

"Well,  I  hardly  know.  I  should  be  glad,  at  any  rate, 
if  you'd  make  a  suggestion.  I  can't,  for  instance,  get 
up  and  turn  the  lady  out  of  her  own  sister's  house.  Do 
you  want  me  to  do  that?  Would  you  like  me  to — to 
take  her  away  in  a  cab?" 

There  was  a  long  silence,  so  awful  that  he  forced  him- 
self to  speak.  "I  am  extremely  sorry.  It  was,  of  course, 
outrageous  that  you  should  have  had  to  sit  in  the  same 
room  with  her  for  five  minutes.  But  what  could  I  do?" 

"You  could  have  taken  me  away." 


The  Helpmate  155 

"I  did,  as  soon  as  I  got  the  chance." 

"Not  before  you  had" — she  paused  for  her  phrase — 
"condoned  her  appearance." 

"Condoned  her  appearance?     How?" 

"By  your  whole  manner  to  her." 

"Would  you  have  had  me  uncivil?" 

"There  are  degrees,"  said  she,  "between  incivility  and 
marked  attention." 

He  coloured.  "Marked  attention!  There  was  noth- 
ing marked  about  it.  What  could  I  do?  Would  you, 
I  say,  have  had  me  turn  my  back  on  the  unfortunate 
woman?  That  would  have  been  marked  attention,  if 
you  like." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  would  have  had  you  do.  One 
has  no  rules  beforehand  for  inconceivable  situations.  It 
was  inconceivable  that  I  should  have  met  her  as  I  did, 
in  your  friend's  house.  Inconceivable  that  I  should  meet 
such  people  anywhere.  What  I  do  ask  is  that  you  will 
not  let  me  be  exposed  in  that  way  again." 

"That  I  certainly  will  not.  The  Ransomes  did  their 
best  to  get  her  out  of  the  room  to-day.  They  won't  an- 
noy you.  I  can't  conceive  why  they  called — except  that 
they  have  always  been  rather  fond  of  me.  You  can't 
hold  people  accountable  for  all  the  doings  of  all  their 
relations,  can  you  ?" 

"In  this  case  I  should  say  you  could — perfectly 
well." 

"Well,  I  don't,  as  it  happens.  But  you  needn't  have 
anything  to  do  with  them ;  not,  at  least,  while  she's  living 
in  their  house." 

"It  was  in  the  Hannays'  house  I  met  her.  But  I'm  not 
thinking  of  myself." 

"I'm  thinking  of  you,  and  of  nothing  else." 


156  The  Helpmate 

"You  needn't,"  said  she,  cold  to  his  warmth.  "I  can 
take  care  of  myself.  It's  you  I'm  thinking  of." 

"Me?     Why  me?" 

"Because  I'm  your  wife  and  have  a  right  to.  It's  out 
of  the  question  that  I  should  call  on  Mrs.  Hannay  or 
receive  her  calls.  I  must  also  beg  of  you  to  give  up  go- 
ing there,  and  to  the  Ransomes,  and  to  every  place  where 
you  will  be  brought  into  contact  with  Lady  Cayley." 

He  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  "My  dear  girl,  you 
don't  expect  me  to  cut  the  Ransomes  because  she  isn't 
brute  enough  to  turn  her  sister  out  of  doors?" 

"I  expect  you  to  give  up  going  to  them,  and  to  the 
Hannays,  as  long  as  Lady  Cayley  is  in  Scale.  Promise 
me." 

"I  can't  promise  you  anything  of  the  sort.  Heaven 
knows  how  long  she's  going  to  stay." 

"I  ought  not  to  have  to  explain  that  by  countenancing 
her  you  insult  me.  You  should  see  it  for  yourself." 

"I  can't  see  it.  In  the  first  place,  with  all  due  regard 
to  you,  I  don't  insult  you  by  countenancing  her,  as  you 
call  it.  In  the  second  place,  I  don't  countenance  her  by 
going  into  other  people's  houses.  If  I  went  into  her 
house,  you  might  complain.  She  hasn't  got  a  house,  poor 
lady." 

She  ignored  his  pity.  "In  spite  of  your  regard  for  me, 
then,  you  will  continue  to  meet  her?" 

"I  shan't  if  I  can  help  it.  But  if  I  must,  I  must.  I 
can't  be  rude  to  people." 

"You  can  be  firm." 

He  laughed.     "What  have  I  got  to  be  firm  about?" 

"Not  meeting  her." 

"What  if  I  do  meet  her?  I  sincerely  hope  I  shan't; 
but  what  if  I  do?" 


The  Helpmate  157 

Her  mouth  trembled;  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He 
sprang  up  and  leaned  over  her,  resting  his  arms  on  the 
back  of  her  chair,  bringing  his  face  close  to  hers  and 
smiling  into  her  eyes. 

"No — no — no !"  She  drew  back  her  head  and  shrank 
away  from  him.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  turned  her 
face  to  him,  gazing  into  her  eyes,  as  if  for  the  first  time 
he  saw  and  could  fathom  the  sorrow  and  the  fear  in 
them. 

"What  if  I  do?"  he  repeated. 

She  tried  to  push  his  hand  from  her,  but  she  could 
not. 

"You  stupid  child,"  he  said,  "do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you're  still  afraid  of  that?" 

"It's  you  who  have  made  me " 

"My  sweetheart " 

"No,  no.      Don't  touch  me." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  gravely,  still  leaning 
over  and  looking  down  at  her. 

"I  mean — I  mean — I  can't  bear  it !"  she  cried,  gasping 
for  breath  under  the  oppression  of  his  nearness. 

He  realised  her  repugnance,  and  removed  himself. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "because  of  her?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "because  of  her." 

He  laughed  softly.  "Dear  child — she  doesn't  exist. 
She  doesn't  exist."  He  swept  her  out  of  existence 
with  a  gesture  of  his  hand.  "Not  for  me  at  any 
rate." 

The  emphasis  was  lost  upon  her.  "It's  all  nonsense 
to  talk  in  that  way.  If  she  doesn't  exist  for  you,  you 
shouldn't  have  gone  near  her,  you  shouldn't  have  sat  talk- 
ing to  her." 

"What  do  you  suppose  we  were  talking  about?" 


158  The  Helpmate 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  want  to  know.  I  saw  and 
heard  enough." 

"Look  here,  Anne.  You  wanted  me  to  be  rude  to  her, 
didn't  you  ?  I  was  rude.  I  was  brutal.  She  had  to  re- 
mind me  that  she  was  a  woman.  By  heaven,  I'd  for- 
gotten it.  If  you're  always  to  be  going  back  on 
that " 

"I'm  not  going  back.      She  has  come  back." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  She  doesn't  exist.  What  differ- 
•ence  does  she  make?" 

She  rose  for  better  delivery  of  what  she  had  to  say. 

"She  makes  the  whole  difference.  It's  not  that  I'm 
afraid  of  her.  I  don't  think  I  am.  I  believe  that  you 
love  me." 

"Ah — if  you  believe  that "     He  came  nearer. 

"I  do  believe  it.  It's  to  me  that  it  makes  the  differ- 
ence. I  must  be  honest  with  you.  It's  not  that  I'm 
afraid.  It  is — I  think — that  I'm  disgusted." 

He  lowered  his  eyes  and  moved  from  her  uneasily. 

"I  was  horrified  enough  when  I  first  knew  of  it,  as  you 
know.  You  know,  too,  that  I  forgave  you,  and  that  I 
forgot.  That  was  because  I  didn't  realise  it.  I  didn't 
know  what  it  was.  I  couldn't  before  I  had  seen  her. 
Now  I  have  seen  her,  and  I  know." 

"What  do  you  know  ?"  he  said  coldly. 

"The  awfulness  of  it." 

"Do  you !      Do  you !" 

"Yes — and  if  you  had  realised  it  yourself But 

you  don't,  and  your  not  realising  it  is  what  shocks  me 
most." 

"I  don't  realise  it?"  His  smile,  this  time,  was  grim. 
"I  should  think  I  was  in  a  better  position  for  realising  it 
than  you." 


The  Helpmate  159 

"You  don't  realise  the  shame,  the  sin  of  it." 

"Oh,  don't  I  ?"  He  turned  to  her.  "Look  here,  what- 
ever I've  done,  it's  all  over.  I've  taken  my  punishment,, 
and  repented  in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  But  you  can't  go 
on  for  ever  repenting.  It  wears  you  out.  It  seems  to 
me  that,  after  all  this  time,  I  might  be  allowed  to  leave 
off  the  sackcloth  and  brush  the  ashes  out  of  my  hair. 
I  want  to  forget  it  if  I  can.  But  you  are  never — never 
— going  to  forget  it.  And  you  are  going  to  make  me 
remember  it  every  day  of  my  life.  Is  that  it?" 

"It  is  not."  She  could  not  see  herself  thus  hard  and 
implacable.  She  had  vowed  that  there  was  no  duty  that 
she  would  omit ;  and  it  was  her  duty  to  forgive ;  if  pos- 
sible, to  forget.  "I  am  going  to  try  to  forget  it,  as  I 
have  forgotten  it  before.  But  it  will  be  very  hard,  and 
you  must  be  patient  with  me.  You  must  not  remind 
me  of  it  more  than  you  can  help." 

"When  have  I ?" 

She  was  silent. 

"When?"  he  insisted. 

She  shook  her  head  and  turned  away.  A  sudden  im- 
pulse roused  him,  and  he  sprang  after  her.  He  grasped 
her  wrist  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  door  to  open  it. 
He  drew  her  to  him.  "When?"  he  repeated.  "How? 
Tell  me." 

She  paused,  gazing  at  him.  He  would  have  kissed 
her,  hoping  thus  to  make  his  peace  with  her;  but  she 
broke  from  him. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "you  are  reminding  me  of  it  now." 

He  opened  the  door,  dumb  with  amazement,  and  turned 
from  her  as  she  went  through. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  was  a  fine  day,  early  in  November,  and  Anne  was 
walking  alone  along  one  of  the  broad  flat  avenues 
that  lead  from  Scale  into  the  country  beyond.  Made 
restless  by  her  trouble,  she  had  acquired  this  pedestrian 
habit  lately,  and  Majendie  encouraged  her  in  it,  regard- 
ing it  less  as  a  symptom  than  as  a  cure.  She  had  flagged 
a  little  in  the  autumn,  and  he  was  afraid  that  the  strain 
of  her  devotion  to  Edith  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  her 
health.  On  Saturdays  and  Sundays  they  generally 
walked  together,  and  he  did  his  best  to  make  his  compan- 
ionship desirable.  Anne,  given  now  to  much  self-ques- 
tioning as  to  their  relations,  owned,  in  an  access  of  jus- 
tice, that  she  enjoyed  these  expeditions.  Whatever  else 
she  had  found  her  husband,  she  had  never  yet  found 
him  dull.  But  it  did  not  occur  to  her,  any  more  than  it 
occurred  to  Majendie,  to  consider  whether  she  herself 
were  brilliant. 

She  made  a  point  of  never  refusing  him  her  society. 
She  had  persuaded  herself  that  she  went  with  him  for 
his  own  good.  If  he  wanted  to  take  long  walks  in  the 
country,  it  was  her  duty  as  his  wife  to  accompany  him. 
She  was  sustained  perpetually  by  her  consciousness  of 
doing  her  duty  as  his  wife;  and  she  had  persuaded  her- 
self also  that  she  found  her  peace  in  it.  She  kept  his 
hours  for  him  as  punctually  as  ever ;  she  aimed  more 
than  ever  at  perfection  in  her  household  ways.  He  should 
never  be  able  to  say  that  there  was  one  thing  in  which 
she  had  failed  him. 

160 


The  Helpmate  161 

No;  she  knew  that  neither  he  nor  Edith,  if  they  tried, 
could  put  their  finger  on  any  point,  and  say :  There,  or 
there,  she  had  gone  wrong.  Not  in  her  understanding 
of  him.  She  told  herself  that  she  understood  him  com- 
pletely now,  to  her  own  great  unhappiness.  The  unhap- 
piness  was  the  price  she  paid  for  her  understanding. 

She  was  absorbed  in  these  reflections  as  she  turned 
(in  order  to  be  home  by  five  o'clock),  and  walked 
towards  the  town.  She  was  awakened  from  them  by 
the  trampling  of  hoofs  and  the  cheerful  tootling  of  a 
horn.  A  four-in-hand  approached  and  passed  her;  not 
so  furiously  but  that  she  had  time  to  recognise  Lady 
Cayley  on  the  box-seat,  Mr.  Gorst  beside  her,  driving, 
and  Mr.  Ransome  and  Mr.  Hannay  behind  amongst  a 
perfect  horticultural  show  in  millinery. 

Anne  had  no  acquaintance  with  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  the  Scale  and  Beesly  Four-in-hand  Club,  and 
her  intuition  stopped  short  of  recognising  Miss  Gwen 
Richards,  of  the  Vaudeville,  and  the  others.  All  the 
same  her  private  arraignment  of  these  ladies  refused 
them  whatever  benefit  they  were  entitled  to  from  any 
doubt.  Not  that  Anne  wasted  thought  on  them.  In 
spite  of  her  condemnation,  they  barely  counted ;  they 
were  mere  attendants,  accessories  in  the  vision  of  sin  pre- 
sented by  Lady  Cayley. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  conspicuous  than  her 
appearance,  more  unabashed  than  the  proclamation  of 
her  gay  approach.  Mounted  high,  heralded  by  the  toot- 
ling horn,  her  hair  blown,  her  cheeks  bright  with  speed, 
her  head  and  throat  wrapped  in  a  rosy  veil  that  flung  two 
broad  streamers  to  the  wind  (as  it  were  the  banners  of 
the  red  dawn  flying  and  fluttering  over  her),  she  passed, 
the  supreme  figure  in  the  pageant  of  triumphal  vice. 


1 62  The  Helpmate 

Her  face  was  turned  to  Gorst's  face,  his  to  hers.  He 
looked  more  than  ever  brilliant,  charming  and  charmed, 
laughing  aloud  with  his  companion.  Hannay  and  Ran- 
some  raised  their  hats  to  Mrs.  Majendie  as  they  passed. 
Gorst  was  too  much  absorbed  in  Lady  Cayley. 

Anne  shivered,  chilled  and  sick  with  the  resurgence 
of  her  old  disgust.  These  were  her  husband's  chosen 
associates  and  comrades ;  they  stood  by  one  another ;  they 
were  all  bound  up  together  in  one  degrading  intimacy. 
His  dear  friend  Mr.  Gorst  was  the  dear  friend  of  Lady 
Cayley.  He  knew  what  she  was,  and  thought  nothing  of 
it.  Mr.  Ransome,  her  brother-in-law,  knew,  and  thought 
nothing  of  it.  As  for  Mr.  Hannay,  Walter's  other  dear 
friend,  you  only  had  to  look  at  the  women  he  was  with 
to  see  how  much  Mr.  Hannay  thought.  There  could 
have  been  nothing  very  profound  in  his  supposed  repudi- 
ation of  Lady  Cayley.  If  it  was  true  that  he  had  once 
paid  her  money  to  go,  he  was  doing  his  best  to  welcome 
her,  now  she  had  come  back.  But  it  was  Gorst,  with 
his  vivid  delight  in  Lady  Cayley,  who  amazed  her  most. 
Anne  had  identified  him  with  the  man  of  whom  Walter 
had  once  told  her,  the  man  who  was  "fond  of  Edith," 
the  man  of  whom  Walter  admitted  that  he  was  not  "en- 
tirely straight."  And  this  man  was  always  calling  on 
Edith. 

She  was  resolved  that,  if  she  could  prevent  it,  he  should 
call  no  more.  It  should  not  be  said  that  she  allowed  her 
house  to  be  open  to  such  people.  But  it  required  some 
presence  of  mind  to  state  her  determination.  Before 
she  could  speak  with  any  authority  she  would  have  to 
find  out  all  that  could  be  known  about  Mr.  Gorst.  She 
would  ask  Fanny  Eliott,  who  had  seemed  to  know,  and 
to  know  more  than  she  had  cared  to  say. 


The  Helpmate  163 

Instead  of  going  straight  home,  she  turned  aside  into 
Thurston  Square;  and  had  the  good  luck  to  find  Fanny 
Eliott  at  home. 

Fanny  Eliott  was  rejoiced  to  see  her.  She  looked  at 
her  anxiously,  and  observed  that  she  was  thin.  She 
spoke  of  her  call  as  a  "coming  back" ;  the  impression  con- 
veyed by  Anne's  manner  was  so  strikingly  that  of  return 
after  the  pursuit  of  an  illusion. 

Anne  smiled  wearily,  as  if  it  had  been  a  long  step  from 
Prior  Street  to  Thurston  Square. 

"I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  "I  was  never  going  to 
see  you  again." 

"You  might  have  known,"  said  Anne. 

"Oh  yes,  I  might  have  known.  And  you're  not  going 
to  run  away  at  five  o'clock?" 

"No.     I  can  stay  a  little — if  you're  free." 

Mrs.  Eliott  interpreted  the  condition  as  a  request  for 
privacy,  and  rang  the  bell  to  ensure  it.  She  knew  some- 
thing was  coming ;  and  it  came. 

"Fanny,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  know  of  Mr. 
Gorst." 

Mrs.  Eliott  looked  exceedingly  embarrassed.  She 
avoided  gossip  as  inconsistent  with  the  intellectual  life. 
And  unpleasant  gossip  was  peculiarly  distasteful  to  her. 
Therefore  she  hesitated.  "My  dear,  I  don't  know 
much " 

"Don't  put  me  off  like  that.  You  know  something. 
You  must  tell  me." 

Mrs.  Eliott  reflected  that  Anne  had  no  more  love  of 
scandalous  histories  than  she  had ;  therefore,  if  she  asked 
for  knowledge,  it  must  be  because  her  need  was  pressing. 

"My  dear,  I  only  know  that  Johnson  won't  have  him 
in  the  house." 


164  The  Helpmate 

She  spoke  as  if  this  were  nothing,  a  mere  idiosyncrasy 
of  Johnson's. 

"Why  not?"  said  Anne.     "He  has  very  nice  manners." 

"I  dare  say,  but  Johnson  doesn't  approve  of  him." 
(Another  eccentricity  of  Johnson's.) 

"And  why  doesn't  he  ?" 

"Well,  you  know,  Mr.  Gorst  has  a  very  unpleasant 
reputation.  At  least  he  goes  about  with  most  objection- 
able people." 

"You  mean  he's  the  same  sort  of  person  as  Mr. 
Hannay?" 

"I  should  say  he  was,  if  anything,  worse." 

"You  mean  he's  a  bad  man  ?" 

"Well " 

"So  bad  that  you  won't  have  him  in  the  house?" 

"Well,  dear,  you  know  we  are  particular."  (A  singu- 
larity that  she  shared  with  Johnson.) 

"So  am  I,"  said  Anne. 

"And  this,"  she  said  to  herself,  "is  the  man  whom 
Edie's  fond  of,  Walter's  dearest  friend.  And  my  friends 
won't  have  him  in  their  house." 

"Charming,  I  believe,  and  delightful,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott, 
"but  perhaps  a  little  dangerous  on  that  account.  And 
one  has  to  draw  the  line.  I  want  to  know  about  you, 
dear.  You're  well,  though  you're  so  thin  ?" 

"Oh,  very  well." 

"And  happy?"      (She  ventured  on  it.) 

"Could  I  be  well  if  I  weren't  happy?  How's  Mrs. 
Gardner?" 

The  thought  of  happiness  called  up  a  vision  of  the  per- 
petually radiant  bride. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Gardner,  she's  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long. 
Much  too  happy,  she  says,  to  go  about  paying  calls." 


The  Helpmate  165 

"I  haven't  called  much,  have  I?"  said  Anne,  hoping 
that  her  friend  would  draw  the  suggested  inference. 

"No,  you  haven't.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self." 

"Why  I  any  more  than  Mrs.  Gardner?     But  I  am." 

Mrs.  Eliott  perceived  her  blunder.  "Well,  I  forgive 
you,  as  long  as  you're  happy." 

Anne  kissed  her  more  tenderly  than  usual  as  they  said 
good-bye, so  tenderly  that  Mrs.  Eliott  wondered  "Is  she?" 

Majendie  was  late  that  afternoon,  and  Anne  had  an 
hour  alone  with  Edith.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
speak  seriously  to  her  sister-in-law  on  the  subject  of  Mr. 
Gorst,  and  she  chose  this  admirable  opportunity. 

"Edith,"  said  she  with  the  abruptness  of  extreme  em- 
barrassment, "did  you  know  that  Lady  Cayley  had  come 
back?" 

"Comeback?" 

"She's  here,  living  in  Scale." 

There  was  a  pause  before  Edith  answered.  Anne 
judged  from  the  quiet  of  her  manner  that  this  was  not 
the  first  time  that  she  had  heard  of  the  return. 

"Well,  dear,  after  all,  if  she  is,  what  does  it  matter? 
She  must  live  somewhere." 

"I  should  have  thought  that  for  her  own  sake  it  was 
a  pity  to  have  chosen  a  town  where  she  was  so  well 
known." 

"Oh  well,  that's  her  own  affair.  I  suppose  she  ar- 
gues that  most  people  here  know  the  worst;  and  that's 
always  a  comfort." 

"Oh,  for  all  they  appear  to  care "  Her  face  be- 
came tragic,  and  she  lost  her  unnatural  control.  "I  can't 
understand  it.  I  never  saw  such  people.  She's  received 
as  if  nothing  had  happened." 


1 66  The  Helpmate 

"By  her  own  people.  It's  decent  of  them  not  to  cast 
her  off." 

"Oh,  as  for  decency,  they  don't  seem  to  have  a  shred 
of  it  amongst  them.  And  the  Hannays  are  not  her 
own  people.  I  thought  I  should  be  safe  in  going  there 
after  what  you  told  me.  And  it  was  there  I  met 
her." 

"I  know.     They  were  most  distressed  about  it." 

"And  yet  they  received  her,  too,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened." 

"Because  nothing  can  happen  now.  They  got  rid  of 
her  when  she  was  dangerous.  She  isn't  dangerous  any 
more.  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  her  great  idea  now  is 
to  be  respectable.  I  suppose  they're  trying  to  give  her 
a  lift  up.  You  must  admit  it's  nice  of  them." 

"You  think  them  nice  ?" 

"I  think  that's  nice  of  them.  It's  the  sort  of  thing 
they  do.  They're  kind  people,  if  they're  not  the  most 
spiritual  I  have  met." 

"You  may  call  it  kindness,  I  call  it  shocking  indif- 
ference. They're  worse  than  the  Ransomes.  I  don't 
believe  the  Ransomes  know  what's  decent.  The  Han- 
nays  know,  but  they  don't  care.  They're  all  dreadful 
people ;  and  their  sympathy  with  each  other  is  the  most 
dreadful  thing  about  them.  They  hold  together  and 
stand  up  for  each  other,  and  are  'kind'  to  each  other, 
because  they  all  like  the  same  low,  vulgar,  detestable 
things.  That's  why  Mr.  Hannay  married  Mrs.  Hannay, 
and  Mr.  Ransome  married  Lady  Cayley's  sister.  They're 
all  admirably  suited  to  each  other,  but  not,  my  dear 
Edie,  to  you  or  me." 

"They're  certainly  not  your  sort,  I  admit." 

"Nor  yours  either." 


The  Helpmate  167 

"No,  nor  mine  either,"  said  Edith,  smiling.  "Poor 
Anne,  I'm  sorry  we've  let  you  in  for  them." 

"I'm  not  thinking  only  of  myself.  The  terrible  thing 
is  that  you  should  be  let  in,  too." 

"Oh,  me — how  can  they  harm  me?" 

"They  have  harmed  you." 

"How  ?" 

"By  keeping  other  people  away." 

"What  people?" 

"The  nice  people  you  should  have  known.  You  were 
entitled  to  the  very  best.  The  Eliotts  and  the  Gardners 
— those  are  the  people  who  should  have  been  your 
friends,  not  the  Hannays  and  the  Ransomes;  and  not, 
believe  me,  darling,  Mr.  Gorst." 

For  a  moment  Edith  unveiled  the  tragic  suffering  in 
her  eyes.  It  passed,  and  left  her  gaze  grave  and  lucid  and 
serene. 

"What  do  you  know  of  Mr.  Gorst?" 

"Enough,  dear,  to  see  that  he  isn't  fit  for  you  to  know." 

"Poor  Charlie,  that's  what  he's  always  saying  himself. 
I've  known  him  too  long,  you  see,  not  to  know  him  now. 
Years  and  years,  my  dear,  before  I  knew  you." 

"It  was  through  Mrs.  Eliott  that  I  knew  you,  re- 
member." 

"Because  you  were  determined  to  know  me.  It  was 
through  you  that  I  knew  Mrs.  Eliott.  Before  that,  she 
never  made  the  smallest  attempt  to  know  me  better  or 
to  show  me  any  kindness.  Why  should  she?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  if  you  kept  her  at  arm's  length — if 
yon  let  her  see,  for  instance,  that  you  preferred  Mr. 
Gorst's  society  to  hers " 

"Do  you  think  I  let  her  see  it?" 

"No,  I  don't.     And  it  wouldn't  enter  her  head.     But, 


1 68  The  Helpmate 

considering  that  she  can't  receive  Mr.  Gorst  into  her  own 
house " 

"Why  should  she?" 

"Edie — if  she  cannot,  how  can  you?" 

Edith  closed  her  eyes.  "I'll  tell  you  some  day,  dear, 
but  not  now." 

Anne  did  not  press  her.  She  had  not  the  courage  to 
discuss  Mr.  Gorst  with  her,  nor  the  heart  to  tell  her  that 
he  was  to  be  received  into  her  house  no  more.  She  saw 
Edith  growing  tender  over  his  very  name ;  she  felt  that 
there  would  be  tears  and  entreaties,  and  she  was  deter- 
mined that  no  entreaties  and  no  tears  should  move  her  to 
a  base  surrender.  Her  pause  was  meant  to  banish  the 
idea  of  Mr.  Gorst  from  Edith's  mind,  but  it  only  served 
to  fix  it  more  securely  there. 

"Edith,"  she  said  presently,  "I  will  keep  my  promise." 

"Which  promise?"  Edith  was  mystified.  Her  mind 
unwillingly  renounced  the  idea  of  Mr.  Gorst,  and  the 
promise  could  not  possibly  refer  to  him. 

"The  promise  I  made  to  you  about  Walter." 

"My  dear  one,  I  never  thought  you  would  break  it." 

"I  shall  never  break  it.  I've  accepted  Walter  once 
for  all,  and  in  spite  of  everything.  But  I  will  not  accept 
these  people  you  say  I've  been  let  in  for.  I  will  not 
know  them.  And  I  shall  have  to  tell  him  so." 

"Why  should  you  tell  him  anything?  He  doesn't  want 
you  to  take  them  to  your  bosom.  He  sees  how  impos- 
sible they  are." 

"Ah— if  he  sees  that." 

"Believe  me"  (Edith  said  it  wearily),  "he  sees  every- 
thing." 

"If  he  does,"  thought  Anne,  "it  will  be  easier  to  con- 
vince him." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  task  was  so  far  unpleasant  to  her  that  she  was 
anxious  to  secure  the  first  opportunity  and  get  it 
over.  Her  moment  would  come  with  the  two  hours 
after  dinner  in  the  study. 

It  did  not  come  that  evening;  for  Majendie  telegraphed 
that  he  had  been  detained  in  town,  and  would  dine  at 
the  Club.  He  did  not  come  home  till  Anne  (who  sat 
up  till  midnight  waiting  for  that  opportunity)  had  gone 
tired  to  bed. 

Her  determination  gathered  strength  with  the  delay, 
and  when  her  moment  came  with  the  next  evening,  it 
came  gloriously.  Majendie  gave  himself  over  into  her 
hands  by  bringing  Gorst,  of  all  people,  back  with  him  to 
dine. 

The  brilliant  prodigal  approached  her  with  a  little  em- 
barrassed youthful  air  of  humility  and  charm;  the  air 
almost  of  taking  her  into  his  confidence  over  something 
unfortunate  and  absurd.  He  had  evidently  counted  on 
the  ten  minutes  before  dinner  when  he  would  be  left 
alone  with  her.  He  selected  a  chair  opposite  to  her, 
leaning  forward  in  it  at  ease,  his  nervousness  visible  only 
in  the  flushed  hands  clasped  loosely  on  his  knees,  his  eyes 
turned  upon  his  hostess  with  a  look  of  almost  infantile 
candour.  It  was  as  if  he  mutely  implored  her  to  forget 
yesterday's  encounter,  and  on  no  account  to  mention  in 
what  compromising  company  he  had  been  seen.  His  en- 
gaging smile  seemed  to  take  for  granted  that  she  was 

169 


170  The  Helpmate 

a  lady  of  pity  and  understanding,  who  would  never  have 
the  heart  to  give  a  poor  prodigal  away.  His  eyes  inti- 
mated that  Mrs.  Majendie  knew  what  it  amounted  to, 
that  awful  prodigality  of  his. 

But  Mrs.  Majendie  had  no  illusions  concerning  sinners 
with  engaging  smiles  and  beautiful  manners.  And  with 
every  tick  of  the  clock  he  deepened  the  impression  of  his 
insolence  and  levity.  His  very  charm  and  the  flush  and 
brilliance  that  were  part  of  it  went  to  swell  the  prodigal's 
account.  The  instinct  that  had  wakened  in  her  knew 
them,  the  lights  and  colours,  the  heralding  banners  and 
vivid  signs,  all  the  paraphernalia  of  triumphant  sin.  She 
turned  upon  her  guest  the  cold  eyes  of  a  condign  destiny. 

By  the  time  dinner  was  served  it  had  dawned  on  Gorst 
that  he  was  looking  in  Mrs.  Majendie  for  something  that 
was  not  there.  He  might  even  have  had  some  inkling 
of  her  resolution;  he  sat  at  his  friend's  table  so  con- 
sciously on  sufferance,  with  an  oppressed,  extinguished 
air,  eating  his  dinner  as  if  it  choked  him,  like  the  last 
sad  meal  in  a  beloved  house. 

Majendie,  too,  felt  himself  drawn  in  and  folded  in  the 
gloom  cast  by  his  wife's  protesting  presence.  The 
shadow  of  it  wrapped  them  even  after  Anne  had  left  the 
dining-room,  as  though  her  indignant  spirit  had  re- 
mained behind  to  preserve  her  protest.  Gorst  had 
changed  his  oppression  for  a  nervous  restlessness  intol- 
erable to  Majendie. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "what  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  said  Gorst  with  a  spurt  of  ill- 
temper.  "I'm  not  a  nerve  specialist." 

Majendie  looked  at  him  attentively.  "I  say,  you 
mustn't  go  in  for  nerves,  you  know ;  you  can't  afford  it." 


The  Helpmate  171 

"My  dear  Walter,  I  can't  afford  anything,  if  it  comes 
to  that."  He  paused  with  an  obscure  air  of  injury  and 
foreboding.  "Not  even,  it  seems,  the  most  innocent 
amusements.  At  the  rate,"  he  added,  "I  have  to  pay  for 
them."  Again  he  brooded,  while  Majendie  wondered  at 
him,  in  brotherly  anxiety.  "I  suppose,"  Gorst  said  sud- 
denly, "I  can  go  up  and  see  Edith,  can't  I?" 

He  spoke  as  if  he  doubted,  whether,  in  the  wreck  of 
his  world,  with  all  his  "innocent  amusements,"  that  su- 
preme consolation  would  be  still  open  to  him. 

"Of  course  you  can,"  said  Majendie.  "It's  the  best 
thing  you  can  do.  I  told  her  you  were  coming." 

"Thanks,"  said  Gorst,  checking  the  alacrity  with  which 
he  rose  to  go  to  Edith. 

Oh  yes,  he  knew  it  was  the  best  thing  he  could  do. 

Edith's  voice  called  gladly  to  him  as  he  tapped  at  her 
door.  He  entered  noiselessly,  wearing  the  wondering 
and  expectant  look  with  which  a  new  worshipper  enters 
a  holy  place.  Perpetual  backslidings  kept  poor  Gorst's 
worship  perpetually  new. 

Colour  came  slowly  back  into  Edith's  face  and  a  ten- 
der light  into  her  eyes,  as  if  from  the  springing  of  some 
some  deep  untroubled  well  of  life.  She  seemed  more 
than  ever  a  creature  of  imperial  vitality,  bound  by  some 
cruel  enchantment  to  her  couch.  She  held  out  her  hands 
to  him ;  and  he  raised  them  to  his  lips  and  kissed  her  fin- 
gers lightly. 

"It's  weeks  since  I've  seen  you,"  said  she. 

"Months,  isn't  it  ?"  said  he. 

"Weeks,  three  weeks,  by  the  calendar." 

"I  say — tell  me — I  am  to  come  and  see  you,  just  the 
same?" 

"Just  the  same?     Why,  what's  different?" 


172  The  Helpmate 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  But  it  seems  to  me,  when  a  man's 
married,  it's  bound  to  make  a  difference." 

Edith's  colour  mounted;  she  made  an  effort  to  control 
the  trembling  of  her  mouth,  the  soft  woman's  mouth 
where  all  that  was  bodily  in  her  love  still  lingered.  But 
the  sweetness  deepened  in  her  eyes,  which  were  the 
dwelling-place  of  the  immortal,  immaterial  power.  They 
met  Gorst's  eyes  steadily,  laying  on  his  restlessness  their 
peace. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  married,  Charlie  ?"  said  she,  and 
smiled  bravely. 

He  laughed.     "Oh,  Lord,  no;  not  I." 

"Who  is,  then?" 

"Walter,  of  course.  I  mean  he  is  married,  don't  you 
know." 

"Yes,  and  is  there  any  difference  in  him  to  you  ?" 

"In  him?      Oh,  rather  not." 

"In  whom,  then?" 

"Well— I  don't  think,  Edie,  that  Mrs.  Walter— I  like 
her — "  he  stuck  to  it — "I  like  her,  you  know,  she's  charm- 
ing, but — I  don't  think  she  particularly  cares  for  me." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"How  do  I  know  anything?  By  the  way  she  looks 
at  me." 

"Oh,  the  way  Anne  looks  at  people " 

"Well,  you  know,  it's  something  tremendous,  some- 
thing terrible.  Unutterable  things,  you  know.  She 
knocks  the  Inquisition  and  the  day  of  judgment  all  to 
pieces.  They're  simply  not  in  it.  It's  awfully  hard  lines 
on  me,  you  see,  because  I  like  her." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  her." 

"Oh,  I  only  like  her  because  she  likes  you,  I  think." 

"And  I  like  her.     Please  remember  that." 


The  Helpmate  173 

"I  do  remember  it.  I  say,  Edie,  tell  me,  is  she  awfully 
devoted  and  all  that?" 

"To  Walter?     Yes,  very  devoted." 

"That's  all  right,  then.  I  don't  think  I  mind  so  much 
now.  As  long  as  I  can  come  and  see  you  just  the  same." 

"Of  course  you'll  come  and  see  me,  just  the  same." 

He  pondered  for  a  long  time  over  that.  Seeing  Edith 
was  the  best  thing  he  could  do.  To-night  it  seemed  the 
only  good  thing  left  for  him  to  do.  He  lived  in  a  state 
of  alternate  excitement  and  fatigue,  forever  craving  his 
innocent  amusements,  and  forever  tired  of  them.  None 
of  them  were  worth  while.  Seeing  Edith  was  the  only 
thing  that  was  worth  while.  He  refused  to  contemplate 
with  any  calmness  a  life  in  which  it  would  be  impossible 
for  him  to  see  her.  If  the  poor  prodigal  had  not  chosen 
the  most  elevated  situation  for  the  building  of  his  house 
of  life,  he  was  always  making  desperate  efforts  to  leave 
the  insalubrious  spot,  and  return  to  the  high  and  wind- 
swept mansions  of  his  youth.  To  be  with  Edith  was  to 
nourish  the  illusion  of  return.  Return  itself  seemed  pos- 
sible, when  goodness,  in  the  person  of  Edith,  looked  at 
him  with  such  tender  and  alluring  eyes.  In  spirit  he 
prostrated  himself  before  it,  while  he  cursed  the  damna- 
ble cruelty  that  had  prevented  him  from  marrying  her. 
Through  that  act  of  adoration  he  was  enabled  to  live 
through  his  alien  and  separated  days.  It  kept  him,  as 
he  phrased  it,  "going,"  which  meant  that,  wherever  his 
rebellious  feet  might  carry  him,  he  continued  to  breathe, 
through  it,  the  diviner  air. 

And  Edith  had  lain  for  ten  years  on  her  back,  and 
every  year  the  hours  had  gone  more  lightly,  through 
the  hope  of  seeing  him.  She  had  outlived  her  time  of 
torment  and  rebellion.  There  was  a  sense  in  which  her 


1/4  The  Helpmate 

life,  in  spite  of  its  frustration,  was  complete.  The  love 
through  which  her  womanhood  struggled  for  victory  in 
defeat  had  fulfilled  itself  by  gradual  growth  into  some- 
thing like  maternal  passion.  There  was  no  selfishness 
in  her  attitude  to  him  and  his  devotion.  By  accepting  it 
she  took  his  best  and  offered  it  to  God  for  him.  With 
fragile,  dedicated  hands  she  nursed  and  sheltered  the  un- 
dying votive  flame.  She  seemed  a  saint  who  had  fore- 
gone heaven  and  remained  on  earth  to  help  him.  Her 
womanhood,  wrapped  from  him  in  veil  upon  veil  of  her 
mysterious  suffering,  had  never  removed  itself  from  him. 
She  held  him  by  all  that  was  indomitable  in  her  own 
nature,  and  in  spite  of  his  lapses,  he  remained  her 
lover. 

She  was  aware  of  these  lapses  and  grieved  over  them 
and  forgave  them,  laying  them,  as  she  had  laid  her 
brother's  sin,  to  the  account  of  her  unhappy  spine.  In 
Edith's  tender  fancy  her  spine  had  become  responsible 
for  all  the  shortcomings  of  these  beloved  persons.  If 
Walter  could  have  married  Anne  seven  years  ago  there 
would  have  been  no  dreadful  Lady  Cayley;  and  if  she 
could  have  married  poor  Charlie  she  would  not  have  had 
to  think  of  him  as  "poor  Charlie"  now.  It  had  been 
hard  on  him. 

That  was  precisely  what  poor  Charlie  was  thinking. 
And  if  that  sister-in-law  was  to  come  between  them,  too, 
it  would  be  harder  still.  But  Edith  insisted  that  she 
would  make  no  difference. 

"In  fact,"  said  she,  "you  can  come  more  than  ever. 
For  if  Walter's  absorbed  in  Anne,  and  Anne's  absorbed 
in  Walter " 

He  took  it  up  gaily.  "Then  I  may  be  absorbed  in 
you?  So,  after  all,  it  turns  out  to  my  advantage." 


The  Helpmate  175 

"Yes.  You  can  console  me.  You  can  console  me 
now,  this  minute,  if  you'll  play  to  me." 

He  was  always  lamenting  that  he  could  do  nothing  for 
her.  Playing  to  her  was  the  one  thing  he  could  do,  and 
he  did  it  well. 

He  rose  joyously  and  went  to  the  piano,  removing  the 
dust  from  the  keys  with  his  handkerchief.  "How  will 
you  have  it?  Sentimental  and  soporific?  Or  loud  and 
strong  ?" 

"Oh,  loud  and  strong,  please.  Very  strong  and  very 
loud." 

"Right  you  are.  You  shall  have  it  hot  and  strong, 
and  loud  enough  to  wake  the  dead." 

That  was  his  rendering  of  Chopin's  "Grande  Polo- 
naise." He  let  himself  loose  in  it,  with  a  rush,  a  vehe- 
mence, a  diabolic  brilliance  and  clamour.  The  quiet  room 
shook  with  the  sounds  he  wrenched  out  of  the  little  hum- 
ble piano  in  the  corner.  And  as  Edith  lay  and  listened, 
her  spirit,  too,  triumphed,  and  was  free ;  it  rode  gloriously 
on  the  storm  of  sound.  It  was,  she  said,  laughing,  quite 
enough  to  wake  the  dead.  This  was  the  miracle  that 
he  alone  could  accomplish  for  her. 

And  downstairs  in  the  study,  Anne  heard  his  music 
and  started,  as  the  dead  may  start  in  their  sleep.  It 
seemed  to  her,  that  Polonaise  of  Chopin,  the  most  im- 
moral music,  the  music  of  defiance  and  revolt.  It  flung 
abroad  the  prodigal's  prodigality,  his  insolent  and  iniqui- 
tous joy.  That  was  what  he,  a  bad  man,  made  of  an 
innocent  thing. 

Majendie's  face  lit  up,  responsive  to  the  delight  and 
challenge  of  the  opening  chord.  "He's  all  right,"  said 
he,  "as  long  as  he  can  play." 

He  listened,  glancing  now  and  then  at  Anne  with  a 


176  The  Helpmate 

smile  of  pride  in  his  friend's  performance.  It  was  as 
if  he  were  asking  her  to  own  that  there  must  be  some 
good  in  a  fellow  who  could  play  like  that. 

Anne  was  considering  in  what  words  she  would  inti- 
mate to  him  that  Mr.  Gorst's  music  was  never  to  be  heard 
again  in  that  house.  Some  instinct  told  her  that  she  was 
courting  danger,  but  the  approval  of  her  conscience  urged 
her  on.  She  waited  till  the  Polonaise  was  over  before 
she  spoke. 

"You  say,"  said  she,  "he's  all  right  as  long  as  he  can 
play  like  that.  To  me,  it's  the  most  convincing  proof 
that  he's  all  wrong." 

"How  do  you  make  that  out?" 

"I  don't  want  to  go  into  it,"  said  Anne.  "I  don't  ap- 
prove of  Mr.  Gorst;  but  I  should  think  better  of  him  if 
he  had  only  better  taste." 

"You're  the  first  person  who  ever  accused  Gorst  of 
bad  taste." 

"Do  you  call  it  good  taste  to  live  as  he  does,  as  I  know 
he  does,  and  you  know  he  does,  and  yet  to  come  here, 
and  sit  with  Edie,  and  behave  as  if  he'd  never  done  any- 
thing to  be  ashamed  of?  It  would  be  infinitely  better 
taste  if  he  kept  away." 

"Not  at  all.  There  are  a  great  many  very  nice  things 
about  Gorst,  and  his  caring  to  come  here  is  one  of  the 
nicest.  He  has  been  faithful  to  Edith  for  ten  years. 
That  sort  of  thing  isn't  so  common  that  one  can  afford 
to  despise  it." 

"Faithful  to  her?  Poor  darling,  does  she  think  he 
is?" 

"She  doesn't  think.    She  knows." 

"Preserve  me  from  such  faithfulness." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 


The  Helpmate  177 

"I  do  know.  And  you  know  that  I  know."  In  proof 
of  her  contention  she  offered  him  the  incident  of  the  four- 
in-hand. 

Majendie  made  a  movement  of  impatience.  "Oh,  that's 
nothing,"  he  said.  "He  doesn't  like  her.  He  likes  driv- 
ing, and  she  likes  a  front  seat  at  any  show  (I  can't  see 
her  taking  a  back  one)  ;  and  if  she  insisted  on  climbing 
up  beside  him,  he  couldn't  very  well  knock  her  off,  you 
know.  You  don't  seem  to  realise  how  difficult  it  is  to 
knock  a  woman  off  any  seat  she  takes  a  fancy  to  sit  on. 
You  simply  can't  do  it." 

Anne  was  silent.  She  felt  weak  and  helpless  before 
his  imperturbable  levity. 

He  smoked  placidly.  "No,"  he  said  presently.  "Gorst 
mayn't  be  a  saint,  but  I  will  acquit  him  of  an  unholy 
passion  for  poor  Sarah." 

Anne  fired.  "He  may  be  a  very  bad  man  for  all 
that." 

"There  again,  you  show  that  you  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about.  He  is  not  a  'very  bad  man.' 
You've  no  discrimination  in  these  things.  You  simply 
lump  us  all  together  as  a  bad  lot.  And  so  we  may  be, 
compared  with  the  angels  and  the  saints.  But  there 
are  degrees.  If  Gorst  isn't  as  good  as — as  Edie,  it 
doesn't  necessarily  follow  that  he's  bad." 

"Please — I  would  rather  not  argue  the  point.  But  I 
am  not  going  to  have  anything  to  do  with  Mr.  Gorst." 

"Of  course  not.  You  disapprove  of  him.  There's 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

He  spoke  placably  as  if  he  made  allowance  for  her 
attitude  while  he  preserved  his  own. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  more  to  be  said,  dear.  And 
I  may  as  well  say  it  now.  I  disapprove  of  him  so  strongly 


178  The  Helpmate 

that  I  cannot  have  him  received  in  this  house  if  I  am 
to  remain  in  it." 

Astonishment  held  him  dumb. 

"You  have  no  right  to  expect  me  to,"  said  she. 

"To  expect  you  to  remain,  or  what?" 

"To  receive  a  man  of  Mr.  Gorst's  character." 

"My  dear  girl,  what  right  have  you  to  expect  me  to 
turn  him  out?" 

"My  right  as  your  wife." 

"My  wife  has  a  right  to  ask  me  a  great  many  things, 
but  not  that." 

"I  ought  not  to  have  to  ask  you.  You  should  have 
thought  of  it  yourself.  You  should  have  had  more  care 
for  my  reputation." 

At  this  he  laughed,  greatly  to  his  own  annoyance  and 
to  hers. 

"Your  reputation?  Your  reputation,  I  assure  you,  is 
in  no  danger  from  poor  Gorst." 

"Is  it  not?  My  friends — the  Eliotts — will  not  receive 
him." 

"There's  no  reason  why  they  should." 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  ?  Do  you  want  me 
to  be  less  fastidious  than  they  are?  You  forget  that 
I  was  brought  up  with  very  fastidious  people.  My 
father  wouldn't  have  allowed  me  to  speak  to  a  man  like 
Mr.  Gorst.  Do  you  want  me  to  accept  a  lower  standard 
that  his,  or  my  mother's?" 

"Have  you  considered  what  my  standard  would  look 
ttke  if  I  turned  my  best  friend  out  of  the  house — a  man 
I've  known  all  my  life — just  because  my  wife  doesn't  hap- 
pen to  approve  of  him?  I  know  nothing  about  your 
Eliotts;  but  if  Edie  can  stand  him,  I  should  think  you 
might." 


The  Helpmate  179 

"I,"  said  Anne  coldly,  "am  not  in  love  with  him." 

He  frowned,  and  a  dull  flush  of  anger  coloured  the 
frown.  "I  must  say,  your  standard  is  a  remarkable  one 
if  it  permits  you  to  say  things  like  that." 

"I  would  not  have  said  it  but  for  what  you  told  me 
yourself." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?" 

"That  Edith  cared  for  him." 

He  remembered. 

"If  I  did  tell  you  that,  it  was  because  I  thought  you 
cared  for  Edie." 

"I  do  care  for  her." 

"You've  rather  a  strange  way  of  showing  it.  I  won- 
der if  you  realise  how  much  she  did  care  ?  What  it  must 
have  meant  to  her  when  she  got  ill?  What  it  meant  to 
him  ?  Have  you  the  remotest  conception  of  the  infernal 
hardship  of  it?" 

"I  know  it  was  hard." 

"Forgive  me;  you  don't  know,  or  you  wouldn't  be  so 
hard  on  both  of  them." 

"It  isn't  I  who  am  hard." 

"Isn't  it?  When  you're  just  proposing  to  stop  Gorst's 
coming  here?" 

"It's  not  I  that's  stopping  him.  It's  his  own  conduct. 
He  is  hard  on  himself,  and  he  is  hard  on  her.  There's 
nobody  else  to  blame." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  think  I'm  actually  going  to 
tell  him  not  to  come  any  more?" 

"My  dear,  it's  the  least  you  can  do  for  me  after " 

"After  what?" 

"After  everything." 

"After  letting  you  in  for  marrying  me,  you  mean.  And 
as  I  suppose  poor  Edie  was  to  blame  for  that,  it's  the 


180  The  Helpmate 

least  she  can  do  for  you  to  give  him  up.  Is  that  it? 
Seeing  him  is  about  the  only  pleasure  that's  left  to  her, 
but  that  doesn't  come  into  it,  does  it?" 

She  was  silent. 

"Well,  and  what  am  I  to  think  of  you  for  all  this?" 

"I  cannot  help  what  you  think  of  me,"  said  she  with 
the  stress  of  despair. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  anything,  as  it  happens.  But,  if 
you  were  capable  of  understanding  in  the  least  what 
you're  trying  to  do,  I  should  think  you  a  hard,  obstinate, 
cruel  woman.  What  I'm  chiefly  struck  with  is  your  ex- 
treme simplicity.  I  suppose  I  mustn't  be  surprised  at 
your  wanting  to  turn  Gorst  out;  but  how  you  could 

imagine  for  one  moment  that  I  would  do  it No, 

that's  beyond  me." 

"I  can  only  say  I  shall  not  receive  him.  If  he  comes 
into  the  house,  I  shall  go  out  of  it." 

"Well "  said  Majendie  judicially,  as  if  she  had  cer- 
tainly hit  upon  a  wise  solution. 

"If  he  dines  here  I  must  dine  at  the  Eliotts'." 

"Well — and  you'll  like  that,  won't  you?  And  I  shall 
like  having  Gorst,  and  so  will  Edie,  and  Gorst  will  like 
seeing  her,  and  everybody  will  be  pleased." 

Overhead  Mr.  Gorst  burst  into  a  dance  measure,  so 
hilarious  that  it  seemed  the  very  cry  of  his  delight. 

"As  long  as  Edie  goes  on  seeing  him,  he'll  think  it's 
all  right." 

Overhead  Mr.  Gorst's  gay  tune  proclaimed  that  indeed 
he  thought  so.  He  broke  off  suddenly,  and  began  an- 
other and  a  better  one,  till  the  spirit  of  levity  ran  riot 
in  immortal  sounds. 

"So  it's  all  right.  She's  a  good  woman.  It's  the  only 
hold  we've  got  on  him." 


The  Helpmate  181 

"If  all  good  women  were  to  reason  that  way " 

"If  all  good  women  were  to  reason  your  way,  what 
do  you  think  would  happen?" 

"There  would  be  more  good  men  in  the  world." 

"Would  there  ?  There  would  be  more  good  men  ruined 
by  bad  women.  Because,  don't  you  see,  there'd  be  no 
others  left  for  them  to  speak  to." 

"If  you're  thinking  of  his  good " 

"Have  you  thought  of  hers?" 

"Yes.  Supposing  he  ends  by  marrying  somebody  else, 
what  will  she  do  then  ? — poor  Edie  !" 

"If  the  somebody  else  is  a  good  woman,  poor  Edie  will 
fold  her  dear  little  .hands,  and  offer  up  a  dear  little 
prayer  of  thankfulness  to  heaven." 

Upstairs  the  music  ceased.  The  prodigal's  footsteps 
were  heard  crossing  the  room  and  coming  to  «.  halt  by 
Edith's  couch. 

Majendie  rose,  placid  and  benignant. 

"I  think,"  said  he,  "it's  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MAJENDIE  could  never  be  angry  with  any  woman 
for  more  than  five  minutes.  And  this  time  he  un- 
derstood his  wife  better  than  she  knew.  He  had  seen, 
as  Edith  had  said,  "everything." 

But  Anne  was  convinced  that  he  never  would  see.  She 
said  to  herself,  "He  thinks  me  hard,  and  obstinate,  and 
cruel." 

She  crept  into  bed  in  misery  that  suggested  a  defeated 
thing.  The  outward  eye  would  never  have  perceived 
that  the  pale  woman  quivering  under  the  eider-down  was 
inspired  with  an  indomitable  purpose,  the  salvation  of 
a  weak  man  from  his  weakness.  To  be  sure,  she  had 
been  worsted  in  her  encounter  by  something  that  con- 
veyed the  illusion  of  superior  moral  force.  But  that  there 
was  any  strength  in  her  husband  that  could  be  described 
as  moral  Anne  would  not  have  admitted  for  a  moment. 
She  believed  herself  to  be  crushed,  grossly,  by  the  supe- 
rior weight  of  moral  deadness  that  he  carried. 

It  was,  it  always  had  been,  his  placidity  that  caused  her 
most  despair.  But  whereas,  at  the  time  of  their  first 
rupture,  it  had  made  him  utterly  impenetrable,  she  now 
took  it  simply  as  one  more  sign  of  his  inability  to  under- 
stand her.  She  argued  that  he  would  never  have  re- 
mained so  calm  if  he  had  realised  the  sincerity  of  her 
determination  to  repudiate  Mr.  Gorst.  Of  course  she 
didn't  expect  him  to  appreciate  the  force  and  the  fine 
quality  of  her  feeling.  Stiil,  he  might  at  least  have 

182 


The  Helpmate  183 

known  that,  if  she  had  found  it  hard  to  pardon  her  own 
husband  his  lapses  in  the  past,  she  would  not  be  likely 
to  accept  a  recent  and  notorious  evildoer. 

She  tried  to  forget  that  in  this  she  herself  had  been 
wounded  as  a  woman  and  a  wife.  It  was  the  offence  to 
heaven  that  she  minded,  rather  than  her  own  mere  hu- 
man hurt.  Still,  he  had  asked  her  to  share  his  house 
and  the  sad  burden  of  it  (her  thought  touched  gently  on 
the  sadness  and  the  burden) ;  and  it  was  the  least  he 
could  do  to  keep  it  undefiled  by  such  presences.  He 
ought  to  have  known  what  was  due  to  the  woman  he 
had  married.  If  he  did  not,  she  said  to  herself  sorrow- 
fully, he  must  learn. 

She  never  doubted  that  he  would  learn  completely 
when  he  was  once  persuaded  that  she  had  meant  what 
she  had  said ;  when  he  saw  that  he  was  driving  her  out  of 
the  house  by  inviting  Mr.  Gorst  into  it.  To  her  the 
question  was  of  supreme  importance.  Whatever  happi- 
ness was  now  left  to  them  must  stand  or  fall  by  the  ex- 
pulsion of  the  prodigal. 

If  she  had  examined  herself,  Anne  would  have  found 
that  she  hardly  knew  which  she  really  wished  for  more : 
that  Majendie  would  at  once  surrender  to  her  view  and 
leave  off  inviting  Gorst,  or  that  he  would  invite  him  at 
once,  and  thus  give  her  an  occasion  for  her  protest. 
That  Majendie  was  peaceable  and  disinclined  to  fight  she 
gathered  from  the  fact  that  he  had  not  invited  him  at 
once. 

At  last,  one  morning,  he  looked  up  quietly  from  his 
breakfast,  and  remarked  that  he  had  invited  Gorst  (he 
laid  a  slightly  irritating  stress  upon  the  name)  to  dinner 
on  Friday. 

The  day  was  Tuesday. 


184  The  Helpmate 

"And  is  he  coming?"  said  Anne. 

"He  is,"  said  Majendie. 

When  Friday  came,  Anne  remarked  at  breakfast  that 
she  was  going  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Eliott. 

"I  thought  you  would,"  said  Majendie. 

She  had  hoped  that  he  would  think  she  wouldn't. 

They  dined  at  seven  o'clock  in  Thurston  Square,  and 
at  half-past  seven  in  Prior  Street,  so  that  she  would  be 
well  out  of  the  house  before  Gorst  came  into  it.  It  was 
raining  heavily.  But  Anne  looked  upon  the  rain  as  her 
ally.  Walter  would  be  ashamed  to  think  he  had  driven 
her  out  in  such  weather. 

He  insisted  on  accompanying  her  to  the  Eliotts'  door. 

"Not  a  nice  evening  for  turning  out,"  said  he  as  he 
opened  his  umbrella  and  held  it  over  her. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  she  significantly. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  came  to  fetch  her  in  a  cab. 

Now,  the  cab,  the  escort,  and  the  sheltering  umbrella 
somewhat  diminished  the  grievance  of  her  enforced  with- 
drawal from  her  home.  And  Majendie's  manner  did 
still  more  to  take  the  wind  out  of  the  proud  sails  of 
her  tragic  adventure.  But  Anne  herself  was  a  suffi- 
ciently pathetic  figure  as  she  appeared  under  his  umbrella, 
descending  from  the  Eliotts'  doorstep,  with  delicate  slip- 
pered feet,  gathering  her  skirts  high  from  the  bounding 
rain,  and  carrying  in  her  hands  the  boots  she  had  not 
waited  to  put  on. 

Majendie  uttered  the  little  tender  moan  with  which 
he  was  used  to  greet  a  pathetic  spectacle. 

"He  sounds,"  said  Anne  to  herself,  "as  if  he  were 
sorry." 

He  looked  it,  too;  he  seemed  the  very  spirit  of  con- 
trition, as  he  sat  in  the  cab,  with  Anne's  boots  on  his 


The  Helpmate  185 

knees,  guarding  them  with  a  caressing  hand.  But  she 
detected  an  impenitent  brilliance  in  his  eye  as  he  stood 
in  the  lamplight  and  helped  her  off  with  the  mackintosh 
which  dripped  with  its  passage  from  the  cab  to  their 
doorstep. 

"I  think  my  feet  are  wet,"  said  she. 

"There's  a  splendid  fire  in  the  study,"  said  he. 

He  drew  up  a  chair,  and  made  her  sit  in  it,  and  took 
off  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  dried  them  at  the  fire. 
He  held  her  cold  feet  in  his  hands  to  warm  them.  Then 
he  stooped  down  and  laid  his  face  against  them  and 
kissed  them.  And  she  heard  again  his  low,  tender  moan, 
and  took  it  for  a  cry  of  contrition.  He  rose  from  his 
knees  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  looked 
up,  prepared  to  receive  his  chivalrous  submission,  to 
gather  into  her  bosom  the  full  harvest  of  her  protest,  and 
then  magnanimously  forgive. 

It  was  not  surrender,  certainly  not  surrender,  that  she 
saw  in  the  downward  gaze  that  had  drawn  her  to  him. 
His  eyes  were  dancing,  dancing  gaily,  to  some  irresist- 
ible measure  in  his  head. 

"It  was  worth  while,  wasn't  it?"  said  he. 

"What  was  worth  while?" 

"Getting  your  feet  wet,  for  the  pleasure  of  not  dining 
with  Gorst?" 

There  were  moments,  Anne  might  have  owned,  when 
he  did  not  fail  in  sympathy  and  comprehension.  Had 
she  been  capable  of  self-criticism,  she  would  have  found 
that  her  attitude  of  protest  was  a  moral  luxury,  and  that 
moral  luxuries  were  a  necessity  to  natures  such  as  hers. 
But  Anne  had  a  secret,  cherishing  eye  on  martyrdom, 
and  it  was  intolerable  to  her  to  be  reminded  in  this  way 
that,  after  all,  she  was  only  a  spiritual  voluptuary. 


1 86  The  Helpmate 

Still  more  intolerable  was  the  large  indulgence  of  her 
husband's  manner.  He  seemed  positively  to  pander  to 
her  curious  passion,  while  preserving  an  attitude  of  su- 
perior purity.  He  multiplied  her  opportunities.  A  week 
had  hardly  passed  before  Mr.  Gorst  dined  in  Prior  Street 
again,  and  Anne  again  took  refuge  in  Thurston 
Square. 

This  time  Majendie  made  no  comment  on  her  action. 
He  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted. 

But  Anne,  standing  up  heroically  for  her  principle,  was 
sustained  by  a  sense  of  moving  in  a  divine  combat. 
Every  time  she  dined  in  Thurston  Square,  she  felt  that 
she  had  thrown  down  her  gage;  every  time  that  Ma- 
jendie invited  Gorst,  she  felt  that  he  stooped  to  pick  it 
up.  Thus  unconsciously  she  breathed  hostility,  and  was 
suspicious  of  hostility  in  him. 

When  she  announced,  at  breakfast  one  Monday,  that 
she  had  asked  the  Eliotts,  the  Gardners,  Canon  Wharton, 
and  Miss  Proctor,  for  dinner  on  Wednesday,  she  uttered 
each  name  as  if  it  had  been  a  challenge,  and  looked  for 
some  irritating  manoeuvre  in  response.  He  would,  of 
course,  proclaim  that  he  was  going  to  dine  with  the  Han- 
nays,  or  he  would  effect  a  retreat  to  Mr.  Gorst's  rooms, 
or  to  his  club. 

But  Majendie  lacked  her  passion  and  her  inspiration. 
He  simply  said  he  was  delighted  to  hear  it,  and  that  he 
would  make  a  point  of  being  at  home.  He  would  have 
to  give  up  an  engagement  which  he  would  not  have  made 
if  he  had  known.  But  that  did  not  greatly  matter. 

They  came,  the  Eliotts  and  the  rest,  and  Miss  Proctor 
again  pronounced  him  charming.  To  be  sure,  he  was 
not  half  so  amusing  as  he  had  been  on  his  first  appear- 
ance in  Thurston  Square ;  but  it  was  only  becoming  that 


The  Helpmate  187 

he  should  repress  himself  a  little  at  his  own  table  and 
in  the  presence  of  the  Canon.  He,  the  Canon,  was  bril- 
liant, if  you  like. 

For  that  night  the  Canon  was,  as  usual,  all  things  to 
all  men,  and  especially  to  all  women.  He  was  the  man 
of  the  world  for  Miss  Proctor ;  the  fine  epicure  of  books 
for  Mrs.  Eliott;  for  Mr.  Eliott  and  Dr.  Gardner,  the 
broad-minded  searcher  and  enthusiast,  the  humble  camp- 
follower  of  the  conquering  sciences.  "You  are  the  pio- 
neers," said  he;  "you  go  before  us  on  the  march.  But 
we  keep  up,  we  keep  up.  We  can  step  out — cassock  and 
all." 

But  he  spread  out  all  his  spiritual  lures  for  Mrs.  Ma- 
jendie.  His  eyes  seemed  more  than  ever  to  pursue  her, 
to  search  her,  to  be  gazing  discreetly  at  the  secret  of 
her  soul.  They  drew  her  with  the  clear  and  candid  flat- 
tery of  their  understanding.  She  could  feel  the  clever 
little  Canon  taking  her  in  and  making  notes  on  her.  "Sen- 
sitive. Unhappy.  Intensely  spiritual  nature.  Too  fine  and 
pure  for  him."  And  over  the  unhallowed,  half-abandoned 
table,  flushed  slightly  with  Majendie's  good  wine,  the 
Canon  drew  up  his  chair  to  his  host,  and  stretched  his 
little  legs,  and  let  his  spirit  expand  in  a  rosy,  broad 
humanity.  As  he  had  charmed  the  spiritual  woman  he 
saw  in  Anne,  so  he  laid  himself  out  to  flatter  the  natural 
man  he  saw  in  Majendie.  And  Majendie  leaned  back  in 
his  chair,  and  gazed  at  the  Canon,  the  remarkable,  the 
clever,  the  versatile  little  Canon,  with  half-closed  eyelids 
veiling  his  contemptuous  eyes.  (He  confided  to  Hannay, 
later  on,  that  the  Canon,  in  his  after-dinner  moments, 
made  him  sick.) 

Anne  heard  nothing  more  of  Mr.  Gorst  for  over  a  fort- 
night. It  was  on  a  Saturday,  and  Majendie  asked  her 


1 88  The  Helpmate 

suddenly,  during  luncheon,  if  she  thought  the  Eliotts 
would  be  disengaged  that  evening. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I've  asked  Gorst"  (again  that  disagreeable 
emphasis)  "to  dine  to-night." 

"Very  well.  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Eliott  if  she  can  have 
me." 

"Can  you?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Oh — and  I  must  prepare  you  for  something  quite 
horrible.  Some  time,  you  know"  (he  smiled  provok- 
ingly),  "I  shall  have  to  ask  the  Hannays.  Do  you  think 
you  can  arrange  that  ?" 

"I  shall  have  to,"  said  she. 

This  time  (it  was  the  third)  she  was  obliged  to  take 
Mrs.  Eliott  into  her  confidence.  She  fairly  flung  herself 
on  her  friend's  mercy. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  making  use  of  you,"  said  she. 

"My  dear,  make  any  use  of  me  you  please.  I'm  al- 
ways here.  You  can  come  to  me  any  time  you  want  to 
escape." 

"To  escape?"  Anne's  face  flew  a  colour  that  was  a 
flag  of  defiance  to  any  reflection  on  her  husband.  She 
would  be  loyal  to  him  as  long  as  she  lived.  Not  one 
of  her  friends  should  know  of  her  trouble  and  her  fear. 

"From  your  Gorsts  and  Hannays  and  people." 

"Oh,  from  them."  Anne  felt  that  she  was  shielding 
him. 

Mrs.  Eliott  marked  the  flag  of  defiance  and  the  atti- 
tude of  defence.  If  Anne  had  meant  to  "give  him  away," 
she  could  not  have  given  him  more  lavishly.  Mrs. 
Eliott 's  sad  inward  comment  was  that  there  was  more  in 
all  this  than  met  the  eye. 


The  Helpmate  189 

And  Anne's  life  now  continued  on  this  rather  uncom- 
fortable footing.  The  Hannays  came  to  dinner,  and  she 
dined  with  Mrs.  Eliott.  The  Ransomes  came,  and  she 
dined  with  Mrs.  Eliott.  Mr.  Gorst  came  (for  the  fourth 
time  in  as  many  weeks),  and  she  dined  with  Mrs.  Eliott. 
She  began  to  wonder  whether  the  Eliotts'  hospitality 
would  stand  the  strain.  She  also  wondered  whether  her 
other  friends  in  Thurston  Square  were  wondering;  and 
what  Canon  Wharton  must  think  of  it.  It  had  not  oc- 
curred to  her  to  wonder  what  Mr.  Gorst  would  think. 

At  first  he  thought  nothing  of  it.  When  he  found  that 
he  had  not  to  encounter  the  terrible  eyes  of  Mrs.  Ma- 
jendie,  Mr.  Gorst's  relief  was  so  great  that  it  robbed  him 
of  reflection.  And  when  he  began  to  think,  he  merely 
thought  that  Majendie  had  asked  him  because  his  wife 
was  absent,  rather  than  that  Majendie's  wife  was  absent 
because  he  had  been  asked.  Majendie  had  calculated  on 
this.  He  was  not  in  the  least  distressed  by  Anne's  ab- 
sences. He  believed  that  she  was  thoroughly  enjoying 
both  her  own  protest  and  Mrs.  Eliott's  society.  And  the 
arrangement  really  solved  the  problem  nicely.  Other- 
wise the  whole  thing  was  trivial  to  him.  He  remained 
unaware  of  the  tremendous  spiritual  conflict  that  was 
being  waged  round  the  person  of  the  unhappy  Gorst. 

But  Christmas  was  now  at  hand  and  Christmas 
brought  the  problem  back  again  in  a  terrific  form.  For 
ten  years  poor  Gorst  had  dined  with  his  friends  in 
Prior  Street  on  Christmas  Day.  His  presence  was  con- 
sidered by  Edith  to  borrow  a  peculiar  significance  and 
sanctity  from  the  festival.  Did  they  not  celebrate  on  that 
day  the  birth  of  the  Divine  Humanity,  the  solemn  advent 
of  redeeming  love?  Punctually  on  Christmas  Day  the 
prodigal  returned  from  his  farthest  wanderings,  and 


190  The  Helpmate 

made  for  Prior  Street  as  for  his  home.  He  had  never 
missed  a  Christmas.  And  how  could  they  expel  him 
now?  His  coming  was  such  a  sacred  and  established 
thing,  that  he  had  spoken  of  it  to  Edith  as  a  certainty. 
And  it  was  as  a  certainty  that  Edith  spoke  of  it  to 
Majendie. 

She  asked  him  how  they  were  to  break  the  news  to 
Anne. 

"Better  not  break  it  at  all,"  said  he.  "Just  let  him 
come." 

"If  he  does,"  said  Edith,  "she'll  walk  straight  out  of 
the  house." 

"Oh  no,  she  won't." 

"Yes,  she  will.     On  principle.     I  understand  her." 

"I  confess  I  don't." 

"But  I  believe,"  said  she,  "if  you  explained  it  all  to  her, 
she'd  give  in  for  once." 

Rather  against  his  judgment,  he  endeavoured  to  ex- 
plain. "We  simply  can't  not  ask  him,  you  know." 

"Ask  him  by  all  means.  But  I  shall  have  to  put  my- 
self on  the  Gardners,  or  the  Proctors,  for  the  Eliotts  are 
away." 

"Don't  be  absurd.  You  know  you  won't  be  allowed 
to  do  anything  of  the  sort." 

"There's  nothing  else  left  for  me  to  do." 

He  looked  at  her  gravely;  but  his  speech  was  light, 
for  it  was  not  in  him  to  be  weighty.  "Don't  you  think 
that,  at  this  holy  season,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  and  good- 
will, and  all  the  rest  of  it,  you  might  drop  it  just  for 
once?  And  let  the  poor  chap  have  a  happy  Christ- 
mas?" 

She  seemed  to  be  considering  it.  "You  think  me  very 
hard,"  said  she. 


The  Helpmate  191 

"Oh  no,  no,  not  hard."  But  he  was  wondering  for  the 
first  time  what  this  wife  of  his  was  made  of. 

"Yes,  hard.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  me  hard.  If 
you  could  understand  why  I  cannot  meet  that  man — 
what  it  means  to  me — the  effect  it  has  on  me." 

"What,"  he  said,  "is  the  precise  effect?"  He  was 
really  interested.  He  had  always  been  curious  to  know 
how  different  men  affected  different  women,  and  to  get 
his  knowledge  at  first  hand. 

"It's  the  effect,"  said  she,  "of  being  brought  into  con- 
tact with  something  terribly  painful  and  repulsive,  the 
effect  of  intense  suffering — of  unbearable  disgust." 

He  listened  with  his  thoughtful,  interested  air.  "I 
know.  The  effect  that  your  friend  Canon  Wharton 
sometimes  has  on  me." 

"I  see  no  resemblance  between  Canon  Wharton  and 
your  friend  Mr.  Gorst." 

"And  I  see  no  resemblance  between  my  friend  Mr. 
Gorst  and  Canon  Wharton." 

She  was  silent,  gathering  all  her  strength  to  deliver 
her  spirit's  last  appeal. 

"Dear,"  said  she  (for  she  wished  to  be  very  gentle 
with  him,  since  he  had  thought  her  hard),  "dear,  I  won- 
der if  you  ever  realise  what  the  thing  we  call — purity 
is?" 

He  blushed  violently. 

"I  only  know  it's  one  of  those  things  one  doesn't  speak 
about." 

"I  must  speak,"  said  she. 

"You  needn't,"  he  said  curtly ;  "I  understand  all  right." 

"If  you  did  you  wouldn't  ask  me.  All  the  same,  Wal- 
ter  "  She  lifted  to  him  the  set  face  of  a  saint  sur- 
rendered to  the  torture — "If  you  compel  me " 


192  The  Helpmate 

"Compel  you?  I  can't  compel  you.  Especially  if 
you're  going  to  look  like  that." 

"It's  no  use,"  he  said  to  Edith.  "First  she  talks  of 
dining  with  the  Gardners " 

"She  will,  too " 

"No.     She'll  stay— if  I  compel  her." 

"Oh,  I  see.  That's  worse.  She'd  let  him  see  it.  He 
wouldn't  enjoy  his  Christmas  if  he  came." 

"No,  poor  fellow,  I  really  don't  think  he  would.  She's 
awfully  funny  about  him." 

"You  still  think  her  funny?" 

"My  dear — it's  the  only  way  to  take  her.  I'm  sorry, 
but  I  can't  let  Charlie  spoil  her  Christmas;  nor,"  he 
added,  "Anne  his." 

So  Mr.  Gorst  did  not  come  to  Prior  Street  that  Christ- 
mas. There  came  instead  of  him  whole  sheaves  and 
stacks  of  flowers,  Christmas  roses  and  white  lilies,  the 
sacred  flowers  which,  at  that  festival,  the  poor  prodigal 
brought  as  his  tribute  to  his  adored  and  beloved  lady. 

He  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  Christmas  Day  in  the 
society  of  Mr.  Dick  Ransome,  and  the  greater  part  of 
his  Christmas  Night  in  the  society  of  pretty  Maggie 
Forrest,  the  new  girl  in  Evans's  shop  who  had  sold  him 
the  Christmas  roses  and  the  lilies.  "For,"  said  he,  "if  I 
can't  go  and  see  Edie,  I'll  go  and  see  Maggie."  And  he 
enjoyed  seeing  Maggie  as  much  as  it  was  possible  to 
enjoy  anything  that  was  not  seeing  Edie. 

And  Edie  lay  among  her  Christmas  roses  and  her  lilies, 
and  smiled,  with  a  high  courage,  at  Nanna,  at  Majendie, 
and  Anne;  and  did  her  best  to  make  everybody  believe 
that  she  was  having  a  very  happy  Christmas.  But  at 
night,  when  it  was  all  over,  Majendie  held  a  tremulous 
and  tearful  Edie  in  his  arms. 


The  Helpmate  193 

"Don't  think  me  a  brute,  darling,"  he  said.  "I  would 
have  insisted,  only  if  he'd  come  to-day  he'd  have  found 
out  he  wasn't  wanted." 

"I  know ;  and  he  never  would  have  come  again." 

He  didn't  come.  For  Canon  Wharton  enlightened 
Mrs.  Hannay,  and  Mrs.  Hannay  enlightened  Mr.  Han- 
nay,  and  Mr.  Hannay  enlightened  Mr.  Gorst. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  prodigal,  "if  she  walks  out  of 
the  house  when  I  walk  into  it,  I  can't  very  well  go." 

"Well,  not  at  present,  perhaps,  for  the  sake  of  peace," 
said  Hannay.  "It  strikes  me  poor  old  Majendie's  in  a 
pretty  tight  place  with  that  wife  of  his." 

So,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  Mr.  Gorst  kept  away  from 
Prior  Street  and  his  Edie,  and  spent  a  great  deal  of  time 
in  Evans's  shop,  cultivating  the  attention  of  Miss  Forrest. 

And,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  Majendie  kept  silence,  and 
his  sister  concealed  her  trembling  and  her  tears. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

GLOOM  fell  on  the  house  in  Prior  Street  in  the  weeks 
that  followed  Christmas.  The  very  servants  went 
heavily  in  the  shadow  of  it.  Anne  began  to  have  her 
bad  headaches  again.  Deep  lines  of  worry  showed  on 
Majendie's  face.  And  on  her  couch  by  the  window,  look- 
ing on  the  blackened  winter  garden,  Edith  fought  day 
after  day  a  losing  battle  with  her  spine. 

The  slow  disease  that  held  her  captive  there  seemed 
to  be  quickening  its  pace.  In  January  there  came  a 
whole  procession  of  bad  nights,  without,  as  she  pathetic- 
ally said,  "anything  to  show  for  it,"  for  her  hands  could 
make  nothing  now.  She  lay  flatter  than  ever ;  each  day 
she  seemed  to  sink  deeper  into  her  couch. 

Anne,  between  her  headaches,  devoted  herself  to  her 
sister  with  a  kind  of  passion.  Her  keenest  experience 
of  passion  came  to  her  through  the  emotion  wakened  in 
her  by  the  sight  of  Edith's  suffering.  She  told  herself 
that  her  love  for  Edith  satisfied  her  heart  completely; 
that  she  fulfilled  herself  in  it  as  she  never  could  have 
fulfilled  herself  in  any  other  way.  Nothing  could  degrade 
or  spoil  the  spiritual  beauty  of  this  relation.  It  served 
as  a  standard  by  which  she  could  better  judge  her  rela- 
tion to  her  husband.  "I  love  her  more  than  I  ever  loved 
him,"  she  thought.  "I  cannot  help  it.  If  it  had  been 
possible  to  love  him  as  I  love  her — but  I  have  lowered 
myself  by  loving  him.  I  will  raise  myself  by  loving  her." 

She  was  never  tired  of  being  with  Edith,  sewing  si- 

194 


The  Helpmate  195 

lently  by  her  fireside,  or  reading  aloud  to  her  (for  Edith's 
hands  were  too  tremulous  now  to  hold  a  book),  or  sit- 
ting close  up  against  her  couch,  nursing  her  hands  in 
hers,  as  if  she  would  have  given  them  her  own  strength. 

And  thus  her  ardour  spent  and  renewed  itself,  and  left 
her  colder  than  ever  to  her  husband. 

At  times  she  mourned,  obscurely,  the  destruction  of 
the  new  soul  that  had  been  given  her  last  year,  on  her 
birthday,  when  she  had  been  born  again  to  her  sweet 
human  destiny.  At  times  she  had  glimpses  of  the  per- 
fect thing  it  might  have  been.  There  was  no  logical  se- 
quence in  the  events  that  had  destroyed  it,  the  return 
of  Lady  Cayley  and  the  spectacle  of  her  triumph.  She 
could  not  say  that  her  husband  had  deteriorated  in  con- 
sequence. The  change  was  in  herself,  and  not  in  him. 
He  was  what  he  always  had  been;  only  she  seemed  to 
see  him  more  completely  now.  At  times,  when  the  high 
spiritual  life  died  down  in  sleep,  she  slipped  from  her 
trouble,  and  turned,  with  her  arms  stretched  towards  him, 
where  he  lay.  In  her  dreams  he  came  to  her  with  the 
low  cry  she  had  heard  in  the  wood  at  Westleydale.  And 
in  her  dreams  she  was  tender;  but  her  waking  thoughts 
were  sad  and  hard. 

Majendie  found  it  more  than  ever  difficult  to  realise 
that  she  had  ever  shown  him  kindness,  that  her  arms 
had  opened  to  him  and  her  pulses  beaten  with  his  own. 
Her  face  and  her  body  were  changing  with  this  change 
of  soul.  Her  health  suffered.  Her  eyes  became  dull, 
her  skin  dry;  her  small,  reticent  mouth  had  taken  on  the 
tragic  droop;  she  was  growing  austerely  thin.  She  had 
abandoned  the  pleasing  and  worldly  fashion  of  her  dress, 
and  arrayed  herself  now  in  straight-cut,  sombre  gar- 
ments, very  serviceable  in  the  sick-room,  but  mournfully 


196  The  Helpmate 

suggestive,  to  her  husband's  fancy,  of  her  renunciation 
of  the  will  to  please. 

On  her  first  appearance  in  this  garb  he  enquired 
whether  she  had  embraced  the  religious  life. 

"I  always  have  embraced  it,"  said  she  in  her  ringing 
voice. 

"I  believe  it's  about  the  only  thing  you  ever  wanted  to 
embrace." 

"You  need  not  say  so,"  she  returned. 

"Then  why,  oh  why,  do  you  wear  those  awful  clothes  ?" 

"My  clothes  are  suitable,"  said  she. 

"Suitable?  My  dear  girl,  they  suggest  a  divorce-suit, 
Majendie  versus  Majendie,  if  you  like.  You're  a  walk- 
ing prosecution.  Your  face,  with  that  expression  on  it, 
is  a  decree  nisi  with  costs.  You  don't  want  to  be  a  libel 
on  your  husband,  do  you?" 

"How  can  you  say  such  things?" 

"Well — look  in  the  glass,  dear,  if  you  don't  believe 
me." 

She  looked.  The  dress  was  certainly  not  becoming. 
She  greeted  the  joyless  apparition  with  her  thin,  unwill- 
ing smile. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  to  him.  He 
loved  her  dearly,  for  all  her  sadness  and  unsweetness. 

"Poor  Nancy,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  brute.     Forgive  me." 

"I  do  forgive  you." 

The  words  seemed  the  refrain  of  her  life's  sad  song. 

And  as  he  kissed  her  he  said  to  himself,  "That's  all 
very  well ;  but  if  I  only  knew  what  I'm  supposed  to  have 
done  to  her !  Her  friends  must  think  me  a  perfect  mon- 
ster." 

And,  indeed,  there  was  more  truth  than  Majendie  was 
aware  of  in  his  extravagant  jests.  His  wife's  face  was 


The  Helpmate  197 

so  eloquent  of  misery  that  her  friends  were  not  slow 
in  drawing  their  conclusions.  Thurston  Square  pre- 
pared itself  to  rally  round  her.  Mrs.  Eliott  was  loyal  in 
keeping  what  she  supposed  to  be  Anne's  secret,  but  when 
she  found  that  the  Gardners  also  understood  that  young 
Mrs.  Majendie  wasn't  very  happy  with  her  husband,  dis- 
cussion became  free  in  Thurston  Square,  though  it  went 
no  further. 

"The  kindest  thing  we  can  do  is  to  give  her  a  refuge 
sometimes  from  his  dreadful  friends,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott. 
"I  have  to  ask  her  here  every  time  they're  there." 

Mrs.  Gardner  declared  that  she  also  would  ask  her 
gladly.  Miss  Proctor  said  that  she  would  ask  Mr.  Ma- 
jendie and  Mr.  Gorst,  which  would  come  to  the  same 
thing  for  Anne,  but  that  she  would  not  have  Anne  with- 
out her  husband.  Miss  Proctor  could  be  depended  on  to 
take  a  light  view  of  any  situation,  a  view  entirely  her 
own. 

So  the  Gardners,  as  well  as  the  Eliotts,  rallied  round 
Mrs.  Majendie,  and  offered  their  house  also  as  her  ref- 
uge. And  thus  poor  Anne,  whose  ideal  was  an  inde- 
structible loyalty,  contrived  to  build  up  the  most  unde- 
sirable reputation  for  her  husband  in  Thurston  Square. 
Of  this  reputation  she  now  became  aware,  and  it  reacted 
on  her  own  estimate  of  him.  She  said  to  herself,  "They 
don't  approve  of  him.  They  seem  to  know  something. 
They  are  sorry  for  me."  And  she  was  humbled  in  her 
pride. 

The  one  who  seemed  to  know  most,  and  to  be  sor- 
riest of  all,  was  Canon  Wharton.  She  was  always  meet- 
ing him  now.  It  was  positively  as  if  he  lay  in  wait  for 
her.  His  eyes  seemed  more  than  ever  to  have  pene- 
trated her  secret.  They  held  it  safe  under  the  pent-house 


198  The  Helpmate 

of  his  brows.  They  seemed  to  be  always  making  allu- 
sions to  it,  while  his  tongue  preserved  a  delicate  reticence. 
Aj  meeting  they  said  to  her,  "It  doesn't  matter  if  I  know 
your  secret.  Do  you  suppose  it  is  so  evident  to  every- 
body? Why,  in  all  this  town,  there  is  no  one — no  one, 
dear  lady — capable  of  discovering  it  but  I.  It  is  a  spirit- 
ual secret."  And  at  parting  they  said,  "When  you  can 
"bear  it  no  longer  you  must  come  to  me.  Sooner  or  later 
you  will  come  to  me." 

And  the  weeks  went  on  towards  Lent.  Anne  longed 
for  the  time  of  cleansing,  and  absolution  and  communion ; 
for  the  peace  of  the  week-day  services  ;  and  for  the  sweet, 
sharp,  grey  light  of  the  young  Spring  at  evening,  a  light 
that  recalled,  piercingly,  the  long  Lent  of  her  girlhood, 
and  the  passing  of  its  pure  and  consecrated  days. 

She  had  not  yet  completely  forsaken  St.  Saviour's  for 
All  Souls.  She  loved  the  grey  old  church  in  the  market- 
place. Set  in  the  midst  of  that  sordid  scene  of  chaffer- 
ing and  grime,  St.  Saviour's  perpetuated  for  her  the  an- 
cient beauty  and  the  majesty  of  her  faith.  When  she 
desired  to  forget  herself,  to  sink  humbly  back  into  the 
ages,  passive  to  a  superb  tradition,  she  went  to  St. 
Saviour's.  When  she  wished  to  be  stirred  and  strength- 
ened, to  realise  her  spiritual  value,  to  feel  the  grip  of 
divine  forces  centring  on  her,  she  went  to  All  Souls. 

On  the  Sunday  before  Lent  she  was  fairly  possessed 
by  this  ardent  personal  mood.  In  obedience  to  it  she 
attended  Matins  at  the  Canon's  church. 

She  had  had  a  scruple  about  going,  for  Edith  had 
been  worse  that  morning,  and  more  evidently  unhappy. 
She  went  alone.  Majendie  had  admitted  lately  that  he 
liked  going  to  St.  Saviour's,  but  he  refused  to  accom- 
pany her  to  All  Souls. 


The  Helpmate  199 

She  went  in  a  strange,  premonitory  mood,  expectant 
of  some  great  illumination.  It  came  with  the  Collect 
for  the  day.  Anne  was  deeply  moved  by  the  Collect. 
She  prayed  inaudibly,  with  parted  lips  thirsting  for  the 
sources  of  her  spiritual  help.  Her  light  went  up  with 
the  ascending,  sentence  by  sentence,  of  the  prayer. 

"Oh,  Lord,  who  hast  taught  us  that  all  our  doings  with- 
out charity  are  nothing  worth  ; 

"Send  Thy  Holy  Ghost  and  pour  into  our  hearts  that 
most  excellent  gift  of  charity,  the  very  bond  of  peace 
and  of  all  virtues ; 

"Without  which  whosoever  liveth  is  counted  dead  be- 
fore Thee ; 

"Grant  this  for  thine  only  Son,  Jesus  Christ's  sake." 
The  ritual  rang  upon  that  note.  The  music  of  the  hymns 
of  charity  was  part  of  the  light  that  penetrated  her, 
poignant,  but  tender. 

Poignant  but  tender,  too,  were  the  aspect  and  the  mood 
of  the  Canon  as  he  ascended  the  pulpit  and  looked  upon 
his  congregation. 

There  was  a  rustling,  sliding  sound  as  the  congregation 
turned  to  listen  to  their  vicar. 

"  'Though  I  speak,' "  said  the  Canon,  "  'with  the 
tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,  and  have  not  charity,  I  am 
become  as  sounding  brass  or  as  a  tinkling  cymbal." 

He  gripped  his  hearers  with  the  stress  he  laid  upon 
certain  words,  "angels,"  and  "cymbal."  He  bade  them 
mark  that  it  was  not  by  hazard  that  the  great  prayer  for 
Charity  was  appointed  for  the  Sunday  before  Lent. 
"The  Church,"  he  said,  "has  such  care  for  her  children 
that  she  does  nothing  by  hazard.  This  call  is  made  to  us 
on  the  eve  of  the  great  battle  against  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil.  Why,  but  that  those  among  us  who  come 


2OO  The  Helpmate 

off  victors  may  have  mercy  upon  those  weakly  ones  who 
are  worsted  and  fallen  in  the  fight.  The  life  of  the  spirit 
has  its  own  unique  temptations.  It  is  against  these  that 
\ve  pray  to-day.  We  are  all  prepared  to  repent,  to  use 
abstinence,  to  mortify  the  body  with  its  corrupt  affections. 
Are  we  prepared  to  bear  the  burden  of  our  brother's 
and  our  sister's  unrepentance  ?  Of  their  self-indulg- 
ence ?  Of  their  sin  ?  To  follow  in  all  things  the  Divine 
Example?  We  are  told  that  the  Saviour  of  the  world 
was  the  friend  of  publicans  and  sinners.  We  accept  the 
statement,  we  have  gone  on  accepting  it,  year  after  year, 
as  the  statement  of  a  somewhat  remote,  but  well-authen- 
ticated historical  fact.  Have  we  yet  realised  its  signifi- 
cance ?  Have  we  pictured,  are  we  able  to  picture  to  our- 
selves, what  company  He  kept  ?  Among  what  surround- 
ings His  divine  figure  was  actually  seen?  In  what  pur- 
lieus of  degenerate  Jerusalem?  In  what  iniquitous 
splendours  ?  In  what  orgies  of  the  Gentiles  ?  And  who 
are  they  to  whom  He  showed  most  tenderness?  Who 
but  the  rich  young  man  ?  The  woman  taken  in  adultery  ? 
And  Mary  Magdalene  with  her  seven  devils?  Which 
is  the  divinest  of  the  divine  parables  ?  The  parable  of  the 
prodigal  son  who  devoured  his  father's  living  with  har- 
lots !" 

The  Canon's  voice  rose  and  fell,  and  rose  again ;  thrill- 
ing, as  his  breast  heaved  with  the  immense  pathos  and 
burden  of  the  world. 

Anne  had  a  vision  of  the  Hannays  and  the  Ransomes, 
and  of  the  prodigal  cast  out  from  the  house  that  loved 
him.  And  she  said  to  herself  for  the  first  time :  "Have 
I  done  right?  Have  I  done  what  Christ  would  have  me 
do?"  The  light  that  went  up  in  her  was  a  light  by 
which  her  deeds  looked  doubtful.  If  she  had  failed  in  this, 


The  Helpmate  201 

in  charity  ?  She  pondered  the  problem,  while  the  Canon 
approached,  gloriously,  his  peroration. 

"Therefore  we  pray  for  charity" — the  Canon's  voice 
rang  tears — "for  charity,  oh,  dear  and  tender  Lord,  lest, 
having  known  Thy  love,  we  fall,  ourselves,  into  the  sins 
of  unpity  and  of  pride." 

Tears  came  into  Anne's  eyes.  She  was  overcome, 
bowed,  shaken  by  the  Canon's  incomparable  pleading. 
The  Canon  was  shaken  by  it  himself,  his  voice  trembled 
in  the  benediction  that  followed.  No  one  had  a  clearer 
vision  of  the  spiritual  city.  It  was  his  tragedy  that  he 
saw  it,  and  could  not  enter  in.  Many,  remembering  that 
sermon,  counted  it,  long  afterwards,  to  him  for  righteous- 
ness. It  had  conquered  Anne.  The  tongues  of  men 
and  of  angels,  of  all  spiritual  powers,  human  and  divine, 
spoke  to  her  in  that  vibrating,  indomitable  voice. 

The  problem  it  had  raised  remained  with  her,  op- 
pressed, tormented  her.  What  she  had  done  had  seemed 
to  her  so  good.  But  if,  after  all,  she  had  done  wrong? 
If  she  had  failed  in  charity? 

She  had  come  to  a  turning  in  her  way  when  she  could 
no  longer  see  for  herself,  or  walk  alone.  She  was  pre- 
pared to  surrender,  meekly,  her  own  judgment.  She 
must  ask  help  of  the  priest  whose  voice  told  her  that 
he  had  suffered,  and  whose  eyes  told  her  that  he  knew. 

She  sent  a  note  to  All  Souls  Vicarage,  requesting  an 
interview,  at  Canon  Wharton's  house  rather  than  her 
own.  She  did  not  want  Edith  or  the  servants  to  know 
that  she  had  been  closeted  with  the  Canon.  The  answer 
came  that  night,  making  an  appointment  after  early 
Evensong  on  the  morrow. 

After  early  Evensong,  Anne  found  herself  in  the 
Canon's  library.  He  did  not  keep  her  waiting,  and,  as 


2O2  The  Helpmate 

he  entered,  he  held  out  to  her,  literally,  the  hand  of  help. 
For  the  Canon  never  wasted  a  gesture.  There  was  no 
detail  of  social  observance  to  which  he  could  not  give 
some  spiritual  significance.  This  was  partly  the  secret 
of  his  power.  His  face  had  lost  the  light  that  illuminated 
it  in  the  pulpit,  but  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a  lambent  tri- 
umph. They  said,  "Sooner  or  later.  But  rather  sooner 
than  I  had  expected." 

Anne  presented  her  case  in  a  veiled  form,  as  a  situa- 
tion in  the  abstract.  She  scrupulously  refrained  from 
mentioning  any  names. 

The  Canon  smiled  at  her  precautions.  "We  are  work- 
ing in  the  dark,"  said  he.  "I  think  I  can  help  you  a 
little  bit  more  if  you'll  allow  me  to  come  down  to  the 
concrete.  You  are  speaking,  I  fancy,  of  our  poor  friend, 
Mr.  Gorst?" 

She  looked  at  him  helplessly,  startled  at  his  penetra- 
tion and  her  own  betrayal,  but  appeased  by  the  pitying 
adjective  which  brought  Gorst  into  the  regions  of  par- 
donable discussion. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "I  had  to  be  certain 
before  I  could  advise  you.  I  can  now  tell  you  with  con- 
fidence that  you  are  doing  right.  I — know — the — man." 

He  uttered  the  phrase  with  measured  emphasis,  and 
closed  his  teeth  upon  the  last  words  with  a  snap.  It 
was  impossible  to  convey  a  stronger  effect  of  moral 
reprobation.  "But  I  see  your  difficulty,"  he  continued. 
"I  understand  that  he  is  a  rather  intimate  friend  of  Miss 
Majendie." 

Anne  noticed  that  he  deliberately  avoided  all  mention 
of  her  husband. 

"She  has  known  him  for  a  very  long  time." 

"Ah  yes.    And  it  is  your  affection,  your  pity  for  your 


The  Helpmate  203 

sister  that  makes  you  hesitate.  You  do  not  wish  to  be 
hard,  and  at  the  same  time  you  wish  to  do  right.  Is 
it  not  so?" 

She  murmured  her  assent.  (How  well  he  understood 
her!) 

"Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.  Majendie,  we  have  sometimes  to 
be  a  little  hard,  in  order  that  we  may  not  be  harder.  You 
have  thought,  perhaps,  that  you  should  be  tender  to  this 
friendship?  Now,  I  am  an  old  man,  and  I  have  had  a 
pretty  large  experience  of  men  and  women,  and  I  tell 
you  that  such  friendships  are  unwholesome.  Un — whole- 
some. Both  for  the  woman  and  the  man." 
'"If  I  thought  that— 

"You  may  think  it.  Look  at  the  man — What  has  it 
done  for  him  ?  Has  it  made  him  any  better,  any  stronger, 
any  purer?  Has  it  made  her  any  happier?" 

"I  think  so.     It  is  all  she  has " 

"How  can  you  say  that,  my  dear  Mrs.  Majendie,  when 
she  has  you?" 

"And  her  brother." 

The  Canon  gave  her  a  keen  glance.  He  seemed  to 
be  turning  a  little  extra  light  on  to  her  secret,  to  see 
it  the  better  by.  And  under  that  light  her  mind  conceived 
again  a  miserable  suspicion. 

"He  knows  something,"  she  thought.  "What  is  it  that 
he  knows?  They  all  seem  to  know." 

She  turned  the  subject  back  again  to  her  sister-in-law 
and  Mr.  Gorst.  "She  thinks  she  can  save  him." 

"Her  brother?" 

It  was  another  turn  of  the  searchlight,  but  this  time 
the  Canon  veiled  his  eyes,  as  if  in  mercy.  He  really  knew 
nothing,  nothing  at  all;  but,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  he 
felt  that  there  was  a  great  deal  more  than  Mr.  Gorst 


204  The  Helpmate 

.and  Miss  Majendie  at  the  back  of  this  discussion,  and 
he  was  very  curious  to  know  what  it  might  be. 

Anne  recoiled  from  the  veiled  condemnation  of  his  face 
more  than  she  had  from  its  open  intimations.  She  was 
not  clever  enough  to  see  that  the  clever  Canon  had  sim- 
ply laid  a  trap  for  her. 

She  was  now  convinced  that  there  was  something  that 
he  knew.  She  lifted  her  head  in  loyal  defiance  of  his 
knowledge.  "No,"  said  she  proudly,  "Mr.  Gorst.  It 
was  of  him  I  was  speaking." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Canon,  as  if  his  mind  had  come  down 
with  difficulty  from  the  contemplation  of  another  and 
more  interesting  personality ;  and  again  the  significance 
of  his  manner  was  not  lost  upon  Anne. 

"I  do  not  know  Miss  Majendie,"  he  went  on,  still  with 
the  air  of  forcing  himself  to  deal  equitably  with  a  subject 
of  minor  interest;  "but  if  I  am  not  much  mistaken,  she 
is,  is  she  not,  a  little  morbid  ?" 

"She  is  a  hopeless  invalid." 

"I  know  she  is"  (his  voice  dropped  pity).  "Poor 
thing — poor  thing!  And  she  thinks  that  she  can  save 
him?  Mark  me,  I  put  no  limit  to  the  saving  grace  of 
God,  and  I  would  not  like  to  say  whom  He  may  not 
choose  as  His  instrument.  But  before  we  presume  to  act 
for  Him,  we  should  be  very  sure  about  the  choice.  Judg- 
ing by  the  fruits — the  fruits  of  this  friendship" — he 
paused,  as  if  seeking  for  a  perfect  justice — "Yes.  That 
is  what  we  must  look  at.  I  imagine  Miss  Majendie  has 
been  morbid  on  this  subject.  Morbid;  and,  perhaps,  a 
little  weak?" 

Anne  flushed.  She  was  distressed  to  think  she  had 
given  such  an  impression.  "Indeed,  indeed  she  isn't. 
You  wouldn't  say  that  if  you  knew  her." 


The  Helpmate  205 

"I  do  not  know  her.  But  the  strongest  of  us  may  be 
sometimes  weak.  You  must  be  strong  for  her.  And  I" 
— he  smiled — "must  be  strong  for  you.  And  I  tell  you 
that  you  have  been — so  far — wise  and  right.  As  long 
as  this  man  continues  in  his  evil  courses,  go  on  as  you 
are  doing.  Do  not  encourage  him  by  admitting  him  to 
your  house  and  to  your  friendship.  But" — (the  Canon 
stood  up,  both  for  the  better  emphasis  of  his  point,  and 
as  a  gentle  reminder  to  Mrs.  Majendie  that  his  dinner- 
hour  was  now  approaching — "but  let  him  repent ;  let  him 
give  up  his  most  objectionable  companions ;  let  him  lead 
a  pure  life — and  then — accept  him — welcome  him — " 
(the  Canon  opened  his  arms,  as  if  he  were  that  moment 
receiving  a  repentant  sinner)  "rejoice  over  him" — (the 
Canon's  face  became  fairly  illuminated)  "as — as  much  as 
you  like." 

The  peroration  was  rapid,  valedictory,  complete.  He 
thrust  out  his  hand,  displaying  the  whole  palm  of  it  as 
a  sign  of  openness,  honesty,  and  good-will. 

"God  bless  you." 

The  solemn  benediction  atoned  for  any  little  momen- 
tary brusquerie. 

Anne  went  away  with  a  conscience  wholly  satisfied, 
in  an  exalted  mood,  fortified  by  all  the  ramparts  of  the 
spiritual  life. 

She  was  very  gentle  with  Edith  that  evening.  She  said 
to  herself  that  her  love  must  make  up  to  Edie  ior  the 
loss  her  conscience  had  been  compelled  to  inflict.  "After 
all,"  she  said  to  herself,  "it's  not  as  if  she  hadn't  me." 
Measuring  her  services  with  those  of  the  disreputable 
Mr.  Gorst,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  amply  making 
up.  She  had  a  hatred  of  moral  indebtedness,  as  of  any 
other,  and  she  loved  to  spend.  In  reckoning  the  love  she 


206  The  Helpmate 

had  spent  so  lavishly  on  Edie,  she  had  not  allowed  for  the 
amount  of  forgiveness  that  Edie  had  spent  on  her.  For- 
giveness is  a  gift  we  have  to  take,  whether  we  will  or 
no,  and  Anne  was  blissfully  unaware  of  what  she  took. 

Majendie  watched  her  ministrations  curiously.  Her 
tenderness  was  the  subtlest  lure  to  the  love  in  him  that 
still  watched  and  waited  for  its  hour.  That  night,  in  the 
study,  he  was  silent,  nervous,  and  unhappy.  She  shrank 
from  the  unrest  and  misery  in  his  eyes.  They  followed 
or  were  fixed  on  her,  rousing  in  her  an  obscure  resent- 
ment and  discomfort.  She  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  of 
him.  It  had  come  to  that. 

She  left  him  earlier  than  usual,  and  went  very  miser- 
ably to  bed.  She  prayed,  to-night,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  crucifix.  It  had  become  for  her  the  symbol  of  her 
life,  and  of  her  marriage,  which  was  nothing  to  her  now 
but  a  sacrifice,  a  martyrdom,  a  vicarious  expiation  of 
her  husband's  sin. 

As  she  lay  down,  the  beating  of  her  pulses  told  her 
that  she  was  not  to  sleep.  She  longed  for  sleep,  and 
tried  to  win  it  to  her  by  repeating  the  Psalm  which  had 
been  her  comfort  in  all  times  of  her  depression.  "I  will 
lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  whence  cometh  my  help. 
My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord,  which  made  heaven  and 
earth." 

She  closed  her  eyes  under  the  peace  of  the  beloved 
words.  And  as  she  closed  them  she  felt  herself  once 
more  in  the  arms  of  the  green  hills,  the  folding  hills  of 
Westleydale. 

She  shook  off  the  obsession  and  prayed  another  prayer. 
She  longed  to  be  alone;  but,  to  her  grief,  she  heard  the 
opening  and  shutting  of  a  door  and  her  husband's  feet 
moving  in  the  room  beyond. 


The  Helpmate  207 

A  few  blessed  moments  of  solitude  were  left  her  dur- 
ing Majendie's  undressing.  She  devoted  them  to  the 
final  expulsion  of  all  lingering  illusions.  She  had  long 
ago  lost  the  illusion  of  her  husband's  immaculate  good- 
ness; and  now  she  cast  off,  once  for  all,  the  dear  and 
pitiful  belief  that  had  revived  in  her  under  her  brief  en- 
chantment in  the  wood  at  Westleydale.  She  told  herself 
that  she  had  married  a  man  who  had,  not  only  a  lower 
standard  than  her  own,  but  an  entirely  different  code  of 
morals,  a  man  irremediably  contaminated,  destitute  of 
all  perception  of  spiritual  values.  And  she  had  got  to 
make  the  best  of  him,  that  was  all.  Not  quite  all;  for 
she  had  still  to  make  the  best  of  herself;  and  the  two 
things  seemed,  at  moments,  incompatible.  To  guard  her- 
self from  all  contact  with  the  invading  evil;  to  take  her 
stand  bravely,  to  raise  the  spiritual  ramparts  and  retire 
behind  them,  that  was  no  more  than  her  bare  duty  to 
herself  and  him.  She  must  create  a  standard  for  him 
by  keeping  herself  for  ever  high  and  pure.  He  loved  her 
still,  in  his  fashion ;  he  must  also  respect  her,  and,  in  re- 
specting her,  respect  goodness — the  highest  goodness — 
in  her. 

Accustomed  to  move  in  a  region  of  spiritual  certainty, 
Anne  was  untroubled  by  any  misgivings  as  to  the  sound- 
ness of  her  attitude.  It  was  open  to  no  criticism  except 
the  despicable  wisdom  of  the  world. 

Her  chief  difficulty  was  poor  Majendie's  imperishable 
affection.  She  tried  to  protect  herself  from  it  to-night 
by  feigning  drowsiness.  She  lay  still  as  a  stone,  stiff  with 
her  fear.  Once,  at  midnight,  she  felt  him  stir,  and  turn, 
and  raise  himself  on  his  elbow.  She  was  conscious 
through  all  her  unhappy  being  of  the  adoring  tenderness 
with  which  he  watched  her  sleep. 


208  The  Helpmate 

At  last  she  slept,  and  sleeping,  she  dreamed  a  strange 
dream.  She  found  herself  again  in  Westleydale,  walking 
in  green  aisles  of  the  holy,  mystic,  cathedral  woods.  The 
tall  beech-stems  were  the  pillars  of  the  temple.  A  still 
light  came  through  them,  guiding  her  to  the  beech-tree 
that  she  knew.  And  she  saw  an  angel  lying  under  the 
beech-tree.  It  lay  on  its  side,  with  its  wings  stretched 
out  so  that  the  right  wing  covered  the  left.  As  she  ap- 
proached, it  raised  the  covering  wing,  and  in  the  warm 
hollow  of  the  other  she  saw  that  it  cradled  a  little  naked 
child.  And  at  the  sight  there  came  a  thorn  in  her  breast 
that  pricked  her.  The  child  stirred  in  its  sleep,  and 
crawled  to  the  place  of  the  angel's  breast,  and  it  fondled 
it  with  searching  lips  and  hands.  Then  it  wailed,  and 
as  she  heard  its  cry  the  thorn  pressed  sharper  into  Anne's 
breast ;  and  the  angel's  eyes  turned  to  her  with  an  immor- 
tal anguish,  and  pity,  and  despair.  She  looked,  and  saw 
that  its  breast  was  as  the  breast  of  the  little  child.  And 
she  was  moved  to  compassion  at  the  helplessness  of  them 
both,  of  the  heavenly  and  of  the  earthly  thing;  and  she 
stooped  and  lifted  the  child,  and  laid  it  to  her  own  breast, 
and  nourished  it ;  and  had  peace  from  her  pain. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IT  was  the  first  day  in  Lent.  Anne  had  come  down 
in  a  state  of  depression.  She  was  silent  during  break- 
fast, and  Majendie  became  absorbed  in  his  morning 
paper.  So  much  wisdom  he  had  learnt.  Presently  he 
gave  a  sudden  murmur  of  interest,  and  looked  up  with  a 
smile.  "I  see,"  said  he,  "your  friend  Mrs.  Gardner  has 
got  a  little  son." 

"Has  she?"  said  Anne  coldly. 

The  blood  flushed  in  her  cheeks,  and  a  sudden  pang 
went  through  her  and  rose  to  her  breasts  with  a  pricking 
pain,  such  pain  as  she  had  felt  once  in  her  dream,  and 
only  once  in  her  waking  life  before.  She  thought  of  dear 
little  Mrs.  Gardner,  and  tried  to  look  glad.  She  failed 
miserably,  achieving  an  expression  of  more  than  usual 
austerity.  It  was  the  expression  that  Majendie  had  come 
to  associate  with  Lent.  He  thought  he  saw  in  it  the 
spiritual  woman's  abhorrence  of  her  natural  destiny. 
And  with  the  provocation  of  it  the  devil  entered  into  him. 

"Is  there  anything  in  poor  Mrs.  Gardner's  conduct  to 
displease  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  dull  passion  of  reproach. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "how  can  you  be  so  unkind  to  me !" 

Her  breast  heaved,  her  lower  lip  trembled.  She  rose 
suddenly,  pressing  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth,  and 
left  the  room.  He  heard  the  study  door  open  hastily  and 
shut  again.  And  he  said  to  himself,  as  if  with  a  sudden 
lucid  freshness,  "What  an  extraordinary  woman  my  wife 
is.  If  I  only  knew  what  I'd  done." 

209 


2io  The  Helpmate 

As  she  had  left  her  breakfast  unfinished,  he  waited  a 
judicious  interval  and  then  went  to  fetch  her  back. 

He  found  her  standing  by  the  window,  holding  her 
hands  tight  to  her  heaving  sides,  trying  by  main  force 
to  control  the  tempest  of  her  sobs.  He  approached  her 
gently. 

"Go  away,"  she  whispered,  through  loose  lips  that 
shook  with  every  word.  "Go  away.  Don't  come  near 
me." 

"Nancy — what  is  it  ?" 

She  turned  from  him,  and  leaned  up  against  the  folded 
window  shutter.  Her  emotion  was  the  more  terrible  to 
him  because  she  was  so  seldom  given  to  these  outbursts. 
She  had  seemed  to  him  a  woman  passionless,  and  of 
almost  superhuman  self-possession.  He  removed  him- 
self to  the  hearth-rug  and  waited  for  five  minutes. 

"Poor  child,"  he  said  at  last.  "Can't  you  tell  me  what 
it  is?" 

No  answer. 

He  waited  another  five  minutes,  thinking  hard. 

"Was  it — was  it  what  I  said  about  Mrs.  Gardner  ?" 

He  still  waited.  Then  he  conceived  a  happy  idea.  He 
would  try  to  make  her  laugh. 

"Just  because  I  said  she'd  had  a  little  son  ?" 

Her  tears  fell  to  answer  him. 

She  gathered  herself  together  with  a  supreme  effort, 
and  steadied  her  lips  to  speak.  "Please  leave  me.  I 
came  here  to  be  alone." 

A  light  broke  in  on  him.  and  he  left  her. 

He  shut  himself  up  in  the  dining-room  with  his  light. 
He  had  pushed  his  breakfast  aside,  too  preoccupied  to 
eat  it. 

"So  that's  it?"  he  said  to  himself.     "That's  it.     Poor 


The  Helpmate  211 

Nancy.  That's  what  she's  wanted  all  the  time.  What  a 
fool  I  was  never  to  have  thought  of  it." 

He  breathed  with  an  immense  relief.  He  had  solved 
the  enigma  of  Anne  with  all  her  "funniness."  It  was  not 
that  she  had  turned  against  him,  nor  against  her  destiny. 
She  had  been  disappointed  of  her  destiny,  that  was  all. 
It  was  enough.  She  must  have  been  fretting  for  months, 
poor  darling,  and  just  when  she  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
Mrs.  Gardner,  he  supposed,  had  come  as  the  last  straw. 
No  wonder  that  she  had  said  he  was  unkind. 

And  in  that  hour  of  his  enlightenment  a  great  chasten- 
ing fell  upon  Majendie.  He  told  himself  that  he  must  be 
as  gentle  with  her  as  he  knew  how ;  gentler  than  he  had 
ever  yet  known  how.  And  his  heart  smote  him  as  he 
thought  how  he  had  hurt  her,  how  he  might  hurt  her 
again  unknowingly,  and  how  the  tenderness  of  the  ten- 
derest  male  was  brutality  when  applied  to  these  wonder- 
ful, pitiful,  incomprehensible  things  that  women  were. 
He  accepted  the  misery  of  the  last  three  months  as  a  fit 
punishment  for  his  lack  of  understanding. 

His  light  brought  a  great  longing  to  him  and  a  great 
hope.  From  that  moment  he  watched  her  anxiously. 
He  had  never  realised  till  now,  after  three  months  of 
misery,  quite  what  she  meant  to  him,  how  sacred  and  dear 
she  was,  and  how  much  he  loved  her. 

The  depth  of  this  feeling  left  him  for  the  most  part 
dumb  before  her.  His  former  levity  forsook  him,  and 
Anne  wondered  at  this  change  in  him,  and  brooded  over 
the  possible  cause  of  his  serious  and  unintelligible  silences. 
She  attributed  them  to  some  deep  personal  preoccupation 
of  which  she  was  not  the  object. 

Meanwhile  her  days  went  on  much  as  before,  a  serene 
and  dignified  procession  to  the  outward  eye.  She  was 


212  The  Helpmate 

thankful  that  she  had  so  established  her  religion  of  the 
household  that  its  services  could  still  continue  in  their 
punctual  order,  after  the  joy  of  the  spirit  had  departed 
from  them.  The  more  she  felt  that  she  was  losing, 
hour  by  hour,  her  love  of  the  house  in  Prior  Street,  the 
more  she  clung  to  the  observances  that  held  her  days  to- 
gether. She  had  become  a  pale,  sad-eyed,  perfunctory 
priestess  of  the  home.  Majendie  protested  against  what 
he  called  her  base  superstition,  her  wholesale  sacrifice  to 
the  gods  of  the  hearth.  He  forbade  her  to  stay  so  much 
indoors,  or  to  sit  so  long  in  Edith's  room. 

One  afternoon  he  came  home  unexpectedly  and  found 
her  there,  doing  nothing,  but  watching  Edith,  who  dozed. 
He  touched  her  gently,  and  told  her  to  get  up  and  go  out 
for  a  walk. 

"I'm  too  tired,"  she  whispered. 

"Then  go  upstairs  and  lie  down." 

She  went;  but,  instead  of  lying  down,  she  wandered 
through  the  house,  restless  and  unsettled.  She  was 
possessed  by  a  terrible  sense  of  isolation.  It  came  over 
her  that  this  house  of  which  she  was  the  mistress  did  not 
in  the  least  belong  to  her.  She  had  not  been  consulted 
or  thought  of  in  any  of  its  arrangements.  There  was  no 
place  in  it  that  appealed  to  her  as  her  own.  She  went 
into  the  little  grave  old-fashioned  drawing-room.  It  had 
a  beauty  she  approved  of,  a  dignity  that  was  in  keeping 
with  her  own  traditions,  but  to-day  its  aspect  roused  in 
her  discontent  and  irritation.  The  room  had  remained 
unchanged  since  the  days  when  it  was  inhabited,  first  by 
her  husband's  mother,  then  by  his  aunt,  then  by  his 
sister.  He  had  handed  it  over,  just  as  it  stood,  to  his 
wife.  It  was  full,  the  whole  house  was  full,  of  portraits 
of  the  Majendies;  Majendies  in  oils;  Majendies  in  water- 


The  Helpmate  213 

colours;  Majendies  in  crayons,  in  miniatures  and  sil- 
houettes. She  thought  of  Mrs.  Eliott's  room  in  Thurston 
Square,  of  the  bookcases,  the  bronzes,  the  triptych  with  its 
saints  in  glory,  and  of  how  Fanny  sat  enthroned  among 
these  things  that  reflected  completely  her  cultured 
individuality.  Fanny  had  counted.  Her  rarity  had  been 
appreciated  by  the  man  who  married  her;  her  tastes  had 
been  studied,  consulted,  exquisitely  indulged.  Anne  did 
not  want  more  books,  nor  bronzes,  nor  a  triptych  in  her 
drawing-room.  But  such  things  were  symbols.  Their 
absence  stood  for  the  immense  spiritual  want  through 
which  her  marriage  had  been  made  void.  Brooding  on 
it,  she  closed  her  heart  to  her  unspiritual  husband.  She 
looked  round  the  room  with  her  cold  disenchanted  eyes. 
Numberless  signs  of  his  thought  and  care  for  her  rebuked 
her,  and  rebuking,  added  to  her  misery.  As  her  restless- 
ness increased,  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  find  some 
satisfaction  in  arranging  the  furniture  on  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent plan.  She  rang  the  bell  and  sent  for  Walter.  He 
came,  and  found  her  sitting  on  the  high-backed  chair 
whose  cover  had  been  worked  by  his  grandmother.  He 
smiled  at  the  uncomfortable  figure  she  presented. 

"So  that's  what  you  call  resting,  is  it?" 

"Walter — do  you  mind  if  I  move  some  of  the  furniture 
in  this  room  ?" 

"Move  it?     Of  course  I  don't.     But  why?" 

"Because  I  don't  very  much  like  the  room  as  it  is." 

"Why  don't  you  like  it?"  (He  really  wanted  to 
know.) 

"Because  I  don't  feel  comfortable  in  it." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  dear.  Perhaps — we'd  better  have 
some  new  things." 

"I  don't  want  any  new  things." 


214  The  Helpmate 

"What  do  you  want,  then  ?"  His  voice  was  gentleness 
itself. 

"Just  to  move  all  the  old  ones — to  move  everything." 

She  spoke  with  an  almost  infantile  petulance  that  ap- 
pealed to  him  as  pathetic.  There  was  something  terrible 
about  Anne  when  armoured  in  the  cold  steel  of  her  spirit- 
uality, taking  her  stand  upon  a  lofty  principle.  But  Anne, 
sitting  on  a  high-backed  chair,  uttering  tremulous  ab- 
surdities, Anne,  protected  by  the  unconscious  humour  of 
her  own  ill-temper,  was  adorable.  He  loved  this  humanly 
captious  and  capricious,  childishly  unreasonable  Anne. 
And  her  voice  was  sweet  even  in  petulance. 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  "you  shall  turn  the  whole  house 
upside  down  if  it  makes  you  any  happier.  But" — he 
looked  round  the  room  in  quest  of  its  deficiencies — 
"what's  wrong  with  it  ?" 

"Nothing's  wrong.     You  don't  understand." 

"No,  I  don't."  His  eye  fell  upon  the  corner  where  the 
piano  once  stood  that  was  now  in  Edith's  room. 

"There  are  three  things,"  said  he,  "that  you  certainly 
ought  to  have.  A  piano,  and  a  reading-stand,  and  a 
comfortable  sofa.  You  shall  have  them." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  stupidity,  and  the  mockery,  and  the  misery  of  that  idea. 

"I — don't — want" — she  spoke  slowly.  Her  voice 
dropped  from  its  high  petulant  pitch,  and  rounded  to  its 
funeral-bell  note) — "I  don't  want  a  piano,  nor  a  reading- 
stand,  nor  a  sofa.  I  simply  want  a  place  that  I  can  call 
my  own." 

"But,  bless  you,  the  whole  house  is  your  own,  if  it 
comes  to  that,  and  every  mortal  thing  in  it.  Everything 
I've  got's  yours  except  my  razors  and  my  braces,  and  a 
few  little  things  of  that  sort  that  I'm  keeping  for  myself." 


The  Helpmate  215 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead,  as  if  to  brush 
away  the  irritating  impression  of  his  folly. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let's  begin.  What  do  you  want 
moved  first?  And  where?" 

She  indicated  a  cabinet  which  she  desired  to  have  re- 
moved from  its  place  between  the  windows  to  a  slanting 
position  in  the  corner.  He  was  delighted  to  hear  her 
express  a  preference,  still  more  delighted  to  be  able  to 
gratify  it  by  his  own  exertions.  He  took  off  his  coat  and 
waistcoat,  turned  up  his  shirt  cuffs,  and  set  to  work.  For 
an  hour  he  laboured  under  her  directions,  struggling  with 
pieces  of  furniture  as  perverse  and  obstinate  as  his  wife, 
but  more  ultimately  amenable. 

When  it  was  all  over,  Anne  seated  herself  on  the  settee 
between  the  windows,  and  surveyed  the  scene.  Majendie, 
in  a  rumpled  shirt  and  with  his  hair  in  disorder,  stood  be- 
side her,  and  smiled  as  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  forehead. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  all  altered.  There  isn't  a  blessed 
tiling,  not  a  chair,  or  a  footstool,  or  a  candlestick,  that 
isn't  in  some  place  where  it  wasn't.  And  the  room  doesn't 
look  a  bit  better,  and  you  won't  be  a  bit  better  pleased 
with  it  to-morrow." 

He  put  on  his  coat  and  sat  down  beside  her.  "See 
here,"  said  he,  "you  don't  want  me  really  to  believe  that 
that's  where  the  trouble  is  ?" 

"The  trouble?" 

"Yes,  Nancy,  the  trouble.  Do  you  think  I'm  such  a 
fool  that  I  don't  see  it  ?  It's  been  coming  on  a  long  time. 
I  know  you're  not  happy.  You're  not  satisfied  with 
things  as  they  are.  As  they  are,  you  know,  there's 
a  sort  of  incompleteness,  something  wanting,  isn't 
there?" 


2i 6  The  Helpmate 

She  sighed.  "It's  you  who  are  putting  it  that  way, 
not  I." 

"Of  course  I'm  putting  it  that  way.  How  am  I  to  put 
it  any  other  way  ?  Let  me  think  now — well — of  course  I 
know  perfectly  well  that  it's  not  a  piano,  or  a  reading- 
stand,  or  a  sofa  that  you  want,  any  more  than  I  do. 
We  want  the  same  thing,  sweetheart." 

She  smiled  sadly.  "Do  we?  I  should  have  said  the 
trouble  is  that  we  don't  want  the  same  thing,  and  never 
did." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"Nor  I  you.  You  think  I'm  always  wanting  some- 
thing. What  is  it  that  you  think  I  want  ?" 

"Well — do  you  remember  Westleydale  ?" 

She  drew  back.  "Westleydale?  What  has  put  that 
into  your  head  ?" 

He  grew  desperate  under  her  evasions,  and  plunged 
into  his  theme.  "Well,  that  jolly  baby  we  saw  there — in 
the  wood — you  looked  so  happy  when  you  grabbed  it,  and 
I  thought,  perhaps " 

"There's  no  use  talking  about  that,"  said  she.  "I  don't 
like  it." 

"All  right — only — it's  still  a  little  soon,  you  know,  isn't 
it,  to  give  it  up  ?" 

"You're  quite  mistaken,"  she  said  coldly.  "It  isn't 
that.  It  never  has  been.  If  I  want  anything,  Walter, 
that  you  haven't  given  me,  it's  something  that  you 
cannot  give  me.  I've  long  ago  made  up  my  mind  to 
that." 

"But  why  make  up  your  mind  to  anything?  How  do 
you  know  I  can't  give  it  you — whatever  it  is — if  you 
won't  tell  me  anything  about  it?  What  do  you  want, 
dear?" 


The  Helpmate  217 

"Ah,  my  dear,  I  want  nothing,  except  not  to  have  to 
feel  like  this." 

"What  do  you  feel  like?" 

"Like  what  I  am.     A  stranger  in  my  husband's  house." 

"And  is  that  my  fault  ?"  he  asked  gently. 

"It  is  not  mine.  But  there  it  is.  I  feel  sometimes  as  if 
I'd  never  been  married  to  you.  That's  why  you  must 
never  talk  to  me  as  you  did  just  now." 

"Good  God,  what  a  thing  to  say !" 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  pain  she  had  in- 
flicted would  have  been  unbearable  but  for  the  light  that 
was  in  him. 

He  rose  to  leave  her.  But  before  he  left,  he  took  one 
long,  scrutinising  look  at  her.  It  struck  him  that  she  was 
not,  at  the  moment,  entirely  responsible  for  her  utter- 
ances. And  again  his  light  helped  him. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "I  don't  think  you're  feeling 
very  well.  This  isn't  exactly  a  joyous  life  for 
you." 

"I  want  no  other,"  said  she. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  want.  You're  over- 
strained— frightfully — and  you  ought  to  have  a  long  rest 
and  a  change.  You're  too  good,  you  know,  to  my  little 
sister.  I've  told  you  before  that  I  won't  allow  you  to 
sacrifice  yourself  to  her.  I  shall  get  some  one  to  come 
and  stay,  and  I  shall  take  you  down  this  week  to  the  south 
coast,  or  wherever  you  like  to  go.  It'll  do  you  all  the 
good  in  the  world  to  get  away  from  this  beastly  place  for 
a  month  or  two." 

"It'll  do  me  no  good  to  get  away  from  poor  Edie." 

"It  will,  dearest,  it  will,  really." 

"It  will  not.  If  you  go  and  take  me  away  from  Edie  I 
shall  get  ill  myself." 


2i 8  The  Helpmate 

"You  only  think  so  because  you're  ill  already." 

"I  am  not  ill."  She  turned  to  him  her  sombre,  tragic 
face.  "Walter — whatever  you  do,  don't  ask  me  to  leave 
Edie,  for  I  can't." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Because  I  love  her.     And  it's — it's  the  only  thing." 

"I  see,"  he  said ;  and  left  her. 

He  went  back  to  Edith.  She  smiled  at  his  disarray  and 
enquired  the  cause  of  it.  He  entertained  her  with  an 
account  of  his  labours. 

"How  funny  you  must  both  have  looked,"  said  Edith, 
"and,  oh,  how  funny  the  poor  drawing-room  must 
feel." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Majendie  gravely,  "I  don't  think 
she's  very  well.  I  shall  get  her  to  see  Gardner." 

"I  would,  if  I  were  you." 

He  wrote  to  Dr.  Gardner  that  night  and  told  Anne 
what  he  had  done.  She  was  indignant,  and  expounded 
his  anxiety  as  one  more  instance  of  his  failure  to  under- 
stand her  nature.  But  she  did  not  refuse  to  receive  the 
doctor  when  he  called  the  next  morning. 

When  Majendie  came  back  from  the  office  he  found 
his  wife  calm,  but  disposed  to  a  terrifying  reticence  on  the 
subject  of  her  health.  "It's  nothing — nothing,"  she  said ; 
and  that  was  all  the  answer  she  would  give  him.  In  the 
evening  he  went  round  to  Thurston  Square  to  get  the 
truth  out  of  Gardner. 

He  stayed  there  an  hour,  although  a  very  few  words 
sufficed  to  tell  him  that  his  hope  had  become  a  certainty. 
The  President  of  the  Scale  Philosophic  Society  had  cast 
off  all  his  vagueness.  His  wandering  eyes  steadied  them- 
selves to  grip  Majendie  as  they  had  gripped  Majendie's 
wife.  To  Gardner  Majendie,  with  his  consuming  inno- 


The  Helpmate  219- 

cence  and  anxiety,  was,  at  the  moment,  by  far  the  more 
interesting  of  the  two.  The  doctor  brought  all  his  grave 
lucidity  to  bear  on  Majendie's  case,  and  sent  him  away 
unspeakably  consoled ;  giving  him  a  piece  of  advice  to 
take  with  him.  "If  I  were  you,"  said  he,  "I  wouldn't  say 
anything  about  it  until  she  speaks  to  you  herself.  Better 
not  let  her  know  you've  consulted  me." 

In  one  hour  Majendie  had  learnt  more  about  his  wife 
than  he  had  found  out  in  the  year  he  had  lived  with  her ; 
and  the  doctor  had  found  out  more  about  Majendie  than 
he  had  learnt  in  the  ten  years  he  had  been  practising  in 
Scale. 

And  upstairs  in  her  drawing-room,  little  Mrs.  Gardner 
waited  impatiently  for  her  husband  to  come  back  and 
finish  the  very  interesting  conversation  that  Majendie  had 
interrupted. 

"Who  is  the  fiend,"  she  said,  "who's  been  keeping  you 
all  this  time  ?  One  whole  hour  he's  been." 

"The  fiend,  my  dear,  is  Mr.  Majendie."  The  doctor's 
face  was  thoughtful. 

"Is  he  ill?" 

"No ;  but  I  think  he  would  have  been  if  he  hadn't  come 
to  me.  I've  been  revising  my  opinion  of  Majendie  to- 
night. Between  you  and  me,  our  friend  the  Canon  is  a 
very  dangerous  old  woman.  Don't  you  go  and  believe 
those  tales  he's  told  you." 

"I  don't  believe  the  tales,"  said  Mrs.  Gardner,  "but  I 
can't  help  believing  poor  Mrs.  Majendie's  face.  That 
tells  a  tale,  if  you  like." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Majendie's  face  is  a  face  of  poor  Mrs. 
Majendie's  own  making,  I'm  inclined  to  think." 

"I  don't  think  Mrs.  Majendie  would  make  faces.  I'm 
sure  she  isn't  happy." 


22O  The  Helpmate 

"Are  you?  Well  then,  if  you're  fond  of  her,  I  think 
you'd  better  try  and  see  a  little  more  of  her,  Rosy.  You 
can  help  her  a  good  deal  better  than  I  can  now." 

Professional  honour  forbade  him  to  say  more  than  that. 
He  passed  to  a  more  absorbing  topic. 

"I  must  say  I  can't  see  the  force  of  this  fellow's  reason- 
ing. What's  that?" 

"I  thought  I  heard  baby  crying." 

"You  didn't.  It  was  the  cat.  You  must  learn  the  dif- 
ference, my  dear.  Don't  you  see  that  these  pragmatists 
are  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse  ?  Conduct  is  one  of 
the  things  to  be  explained.  How  can  you  take  it,  then, 
as  the  ground  of  the  explanation  ?" 

"I  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Gardner. 

"But  you  do,"  said  Dr.  Gardner.  It  was  in  such  bicker- 
ings that  they  lived  and  moved  and  had  their  happy  being. 
Each  was  the  possessor  of  a  strenuous  soul,  made  harm- 
less by  its  extreme  simplicity.  They  were  united  by  their 
love  of  argument,  divided  only  by  their  adoration  of  each 
other.  They  now  plunged  with  joy  into  the  heart  of  a 
vast  metaphysical  contention;  and  Majendie,  his  conduct 
and  the  explanation  of  it,  were  forgotten  until  another 
cry  was  heard  and,  this  time,  Mrs.  Gardner  fled. 

She  came  back  full  of  reproach.  "Oh,  Philip,  to 
think  that  you  can't  recognise  the  voice  of  your  little 
son!" 

Dr.  Gardner  looked  guilty.  "I  really  thought,"  said  he, 
"it  was  the  cat."  He  hated  these  interruptions. 

He  looked  for  Mrs.  Gardner  to  take  up  the  thread  of 
the  delicious  argument  where  she  had  dropped  it;  but 
something  had  reminded  Mrs.  Gardner  that  she  must 
write  a  note  to  Mrs.  Majendie.  She  sat  down  and  wrote 
it  at  once  while  she  remembered.  She  could  think  of 


The  Helpmate  221 

nothing  to  say  but,  "When  will  you  come  and  take  tea 
with  me,  and  see  my  little  son  ?" 

Anne  came  that  week,  and  saw  the  little  son,  and  re- 
joiced over  him.  She  kept  on  coming  to  see  him.  She 
always  had  been  fond  of  Mrs.  Gardner,  now  she  was 
growing  fonder  of  her  than  ever.  In  her  happy  presence 
she  felt  wonderfully  at  peace.  There  had  been  a  time 
when  the  spectacle  of  Mrs.  Gardner's  happiness  would 
have  given  her  sharp  pangs  of  jealousy;  but  that  time 
was  over  now  for  Anne.  She  liked  to  sit  and  look  at  her 
and  watch  the  happiness  flowering  in  Mrs.  Gardner's 
face.  She  thought  Mrs.  Gardner's  face  was  more  beauti- 
ful than  any  woman's  she  had  ever  seen,  except  Edie's. 
Edie's  face  was  perfect ;  but  Mrs.  Gardner's  was  a  simple 
oval  that  sacrificed  perfection  in  the  tender  amplitude  of 
her  chin.  There  were  no  lines  on  it;  for  Mrs.  Gardner 
was  never  worried,  nor  excited,  nor  perplexed.  How 
could  she  be  worried  when  Dr.  Gardner  was  well  and 
happy?  Or  excited,  when,  having  Dr.  Gardner,  there 
was  nothing  left  to  be  excited  about?  Or  perplexed, 
when  Dr.  Gardner  held  the  solution  of  all  problems  in  his 
mighty  brain? 

Mrs.  Gardner's  bridal  aspect  had  not  disappeared  with 
the  advent  of  her  motherhood.  She  was  not  more 
wrapped  up  in  the  baby  than  she  was  in  Dr.  Gardner  and 
his  metaphysics.  She  even  admitted  to  Anne  that  the 
baby  had  been  something  of  a  disappointment.  Anne 
was  sitting  in  the  nursery  with  her  when  Mrs.  Gardner 
ventured  on  this  confidence. 

"You  know  I'd  rather  have  had  a  little  daughter." 

Anne  confessed  that  her  own  yearning  was  for  a  little 
son. 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Gardner,  "I  wouldn't  have  him  dif- 


222  The  Helpmate 

ferent  now.  He's  going  to  have  as  happy  a  life  as  ever 
I  can  give  him.  I've  got  so  much  to  make  up  for." 

"To  make  up  for?"  Anne  wondered  what  little  Mrs. 
Gardner  could  possibly  have  to  make  up  for. 

"Well,  you  see  it's  a  shocking  confession  to  make;  but 
I  didn't  care  for  him  at  all  before  he  came.  I  didn't  want 
him.  I  didn't  want  anybody  but  Philip,  and  Philip  didn't 
want  anybody  but  me.  Are  you  horrified?" 

"I  think  I  am,"  said  Anne.  She  had  difficulty  in  believ- 
ing that  dear  little  Mrs.  Gardner  could  ever  have  taken 
this  abnormal,  this  monstrous  attitude. 

"You  see  our  life  was  so  perfect  as  it  was.  And  we 
have  so  little  time  to  be  together,  because  of  his  tiresome 
patients.  I  grudged  every  minute  taken  from  him.  And, 
when  I  knew  that  this  little  creature  was  coming,  I  sat 
down  and  cried  with  rage.  I  felt  that  he  was  going  to 
spoil  everything,  and  keep  me  from  Philip.  I  hadn't  a 
.scrap  of  tenderness  for  him,  poor  little  darling." 

"Oh,"  said  Anne. 

"I  hadn't  really.  I  was  quite  happy  with  my  husband." 
She  paused,  feeling  that  the  ground  under  her  was  peril- 
ous. "I  don't  know  why  I'm  telling  you  all  this,  dear 
Mrs.  Majendie.  I've  never  told  another  soul.  But  I 
thought,  perhaps,  you  ought  to  know." 

"Why,"  Anne  wondered,  "does  she  think  I  ought  to 
know?" 

"You  see,"  Mrs.  Gardner  went  on, "/  thought  I  couldn't 
be  any  happier  than  I  was.  But  I  am.  Ten  times 
happier.  And  I  didn't  think  I  could  love  my  husband 
more  than  I  did.  But  I  do.  Ten  times  more,  and  quite 
differently.  Just  because  of  this  tiny,  crying  thing,  with- 
out an  idea  in  his  little  soft  head.  I've  learned  things  I 
never  should  have  learned  without  him.  He  takes  up  all 


The  Helpmate  223 

my  time,  and  keeps  me  from  enjoying  Philip;  and  yet  I 
know  now  that  I  never  was  really  married  till  he  came." 

Mrs.  Gardner  looked  up  at  Anne  with  shy,  beautiful 
eyes  that  begged  forgiveness  if  she  had  said  too  much. 
And  Anne  realised  that  it  was  for  her  that  the  little  bride 
had  been  singing  that  hymn  of  hope,  for  her  that  she  had 
been  laying  out  the  sacred  treasures  of  her  mysteriously 
wedded  heart. 

In  the  same  spirit  Mrs.  Gardner  now  laid  out  her  fine 
store  of  clothing  for  the  little  son.  And  Anne's  heart 
grew  soft  over  the  many  little  vests,  and  the  jackets,  and 
the  diminutive  short-waisted  gowns. 

She  was  busy  with  a  pile  of  such  things  one  evening 
up  in  her  bedroom  when  Majendie  came  in.  The  bed 
was  strewn  with  the  absurd  garments,  and  Anne  sat  be- 
side it,  sorting  them,  and  smiling  to  herself  that  small, 
pure,  shy  smile  of  hers.  Her  soft  face  drew  him  to  her. 
He  thought  it  was  his  hour.  He  took  up  one  of  the  little 
vests  and  spanned  it  with  his  hand.  "I'm  so  glad,"  he 
said.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Nancy " 

"I  can't  talk  about  it." 

"Not  to  me?" 

"No,"  she  said.     "Not  to  you." 

"I  should  have  thought " 

Her  face  hardened.  "I  can't.  Please  understand  thatr 
Walter.  I  don't  think  I  ever  can,  now.  You've  made 
everything  so  that  I  can't  bear  it." 

She  took  the  little  vest  from  him  and  laid  it  with  the 
rest. 

And  as  he  left  her  his  hope  grew  cold.  Her  mother- 
hood was  only  another  sanctuary  from  which  she  shut 


224  The  Helpmate 

him  out.  There  was  something  so  humiliating  in  his 
pain  that  he  would  have  hidden  it  even  from  Edith.  But 
Edith  was  too  clever  for  him. 

"Has  she  said  anything  to  you  about  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     Has  she  not  to  you  ?" 

"Not  yet.  She  won't  let  me  speak  about  it.  She's 
funnier  than  ever.  She  treats  me  as  if  I  were  some  ob- 
scene monster  just  crawled  up  out  of  the  primeval 
slime." 

"Poor  Wallie!" 

"Well,  but  it's  pretty  serious.  Do  you  think  she's  going 
to  keep  it  up  for  all  eternity  ?" 

"No,  I  don't,  dear.  I  don't  think  she'll  keep  it  up  at 
all." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  I'm  tired  out  with  it.  I  give  her 
up." 

"No,  you  don't,  dear,  any  more  than  I  do." 

"But  what  can  I  do?  Is  it,  honestly,  Edie,  is  it  in  any 
way  my  fault?" 

"Well — I  think,  perhaps,  if  you'd  approached  her  in 
another  spirit  at  the  first — she  told  me  that  what  shocked 
her  more  than  anything  that  night  at  Scarby,  was,  dar- 
ling, your  appalling  flippancy.  You  know,  if  you'd  taken 
that  tone  when  you  first  spoke  to  me  about  it,  I  think  it 
Avould  have  killed  me.  And  she's  your  wife,  not  your 
sister.  It's  worse  for  her.  Think  of  the  shock  it  must 
have  been  to  her." 

"Think  of  the  shock  it  was  to  me.  She  sprang  the 
v/hole  thing  on  me  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning — before 
I  was  awake.  What  could  I  do?  Besides,  she  got  over 
all  that  in  the  summer.  And  now  she  goes  back  to  it 
worse  than  ever,  though  I  haven't  done  anything  in  be- 
tween." 


The  Helpmate  225 

"It  was  all  brought  back  to  her  in  the  autumn,  remem- 
ber." 

"Granted  that,  it's  inconceivable  how  she  can  keep  it 
up.  It  isn't  as  if  she  was  a  hard  woman." 

"No.  She's  softer  than  any  woman  I  know,  in  some 
ways.  But  she  happens  to  be  made  so  that  that  is  the 
one  thing  she  finds  it  hardest  to  forgive.  Besides,  think 
of  her  health." 

"I  wonder  if  that  really  accounts  for  it." 

"I  think  it  may." 

"I  don't  know.  It  began  before,  and  I'm  afraid  it's 
come  to  stay." 

"What  has  come  to  stay  ?" 

"The  dislike  she's  taken  to  me." 

"I  don't  believe  in  her  dislike.     Give  her  time." 

"Oh,  the  time  I  have  given  her !     A  year  and  more." 

"What's  a  year?     Wait,"  said  Edith.     "Wait." 

He  waited ;  and  as  the  months  went  on,  Anne  schooled 
herself,  for  her  child's  sake,  into  strength  and  calm.  Her 
white,  brooding  face  grew  full  and  tender ;  but  its  tender- 
ness was  not  for  him.  He  remained  shut  out  from  the 
sanctuary  where  she  sat  nursing  her  dream. 

He  suffered  indescribably;  but  he  told  himself  that 
Anne  had  merely  taken  one  of  those  queer  morbid  aver- 
sions of  which  Gardner  had  told  him.  And  at  the  birth 
of  their  child  he  looked  for  it  to  pass. 

The  child  was  born  in  mid-October.  Majendie  had  sat 
up  all  night ;  and  very  early  in  the  morning  he  was  sent 
for  to  her  room.  He  came,  stealing  in  on  tiptoe,  dumb, 
with  his  head  bowed  in  terror  and  a  certain  awe. 

He  found  Anne  lying  in  the  big  bed  under  the  crucifix. 
Her  face  was  dull  and  white,  and  her  arms  were  stretched 
out  by  her  sides  in  utter  exhaustion.  When  he  bent  over 


226  The  Helpmate 

her  she  closed  her  eyes,  but  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  speak  to  him.  He  felt  her  breath  upon  his  face, 
but  he  could  hear  no  words. 

"What  is  it?"  he  whispered  to  the  nurse  who  stood 
beside  him.  She  held  in  one  arm  the  new-born  child, 
hooded  and  folded  in  a  piece  of  flannel. 

The  nurse  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "She's  trying 
to  tell  you  to  look  at  your  little  daughter,  sir." 

He  turned  and  saw  something — something  queer  and 
red  between  two  folds  of  flannel,  something  that  stirred 
and  drew  itself  into  puckers,  and  gave  forth  a  cry. 

And  as  he  touched  the  child,  his  strength  melted  in  him, 
as  it  melted  when  he  laid  his  hands  for  the  first  time  upon 
its  mother. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AFTER  the  birth  of  her  child  Anne  was  restored  to 
her  normal  poise  and  self-possession.  She  appeared 
the  large,  robust,  superb  creature  she  had  once  been.  The 
serenity  of  her  bearing  proclaimed  that  in  her  mother- 
hood her  nature  was  fulfilled.  She  had  given  herself  up 
to  the  child  from  the  first  moment  that  she  held  it  to  her 
breast.  She  had  found  again  her  tenderness,  her  glad- 
ness, and  her  peace. 

Majendie  had  waited  for  this.  He  believed  that  if  the 
child  made  her  so  happy,  she  could  hardly  continue  to 
cherish  an  aversion  from  its  father. 

In  the  months  that  followed  he  witnessed  the  slow 
destruction  of  this  hope.  The  very  fact  that  Anne  had 
become  "normal"  made  its  end  more  certain.  There  were 
no  longer  any  affecting  moods,  any  divine  caprices  for 
him  to  look  to,  nor  was  there  much  likelihood  of  a  pro- 
founder  change.  Such  as  his  wife  was  now,  she  always 
would  be. 

She  had  settled  down. 

And  he  had  accepted  the  situation. 

He  had  had  his  illusions.  He  loved  the  child.  It  was 
white,  and  weak,  and  sickly,  as  if  it  drew  a  secret  bitter- 
ness from  its  mother's  breast.  It  kept  Anne  awake  at 
night  with  its  crying.  Once  Majendie  got  up,  and  came 
to  her,  and  took  it  from  her,  and  it  was  suddenly  pacified, 
and  fell  asleep  in  his  arms.  He  had  risen  many  nights 
after  that  to  quiet  it.  It  had  seemed  to  him  then  that 

227 


228  The  Helpmate 

something  passed  between  them  with  the  small  tender 
body  his  arms  took  from  her  and  gave  to  her  again.  But 
he  had  abandoned  that  illusion  now.  And  when  he  saw 
her  with  the  child  he  said  to  himself,  "I  see.  She  has  got 
all  she  wanted.  She  has  no  further  use  for  me." 

Thus  the  child  that  should  have  united  separated  them. 
Anne  took  from  him  whatever  small  comfort  it  might 
have  given  him.  She  was  disposed  to  ignore  those  pa- 
ternal passages  in  the  night-watches,  and  to  combat  the 
idea  of  his  devotion  to  the  child.  That  situation  he  had 
accepted,  too. 

But  Anne,  in  appearing  to  accept  everything,  accepted 
nothing.  She  was  conscious  of  a  mute  rebellion,  even  of 
a  certain  disloyalty  of  the  imagination.  She  disapproved 
of  Majendie  more  than  ever.  She  guarded  her  own 
purity  now  as  her  child's  inheritance,  and  her  motherhood 
strengthened  her  spiritual  revolt.  Her  mind  turned 
sometimes  to  the  ideal  father  of  her  child,  evoking  visions 
of  the  Minor  Canon  whom  her  soul  had  loved.  Lent 
brought  the  image  of  the  Minor  Canon  nearer  to  her,  and 
towards  his  perfections  she  turned  the  tender  face  of  her 
dreams,  while  she  presented  to  her  husband  the  stern  face 
of  duty.  She  had  never  swerved  from  that.  There  was 
no  reason  why  she  should  close  her  door  to  him,  since  the 
material  bond  was  torture  to  her,  and  the  ramparts  of  the 
spiritual  life  rose  high.  Her  marriage  was  more  than 
ever  a  martyrdom  and  a  sacrifice,  redemptive,  propitiatory 
of  powers  she  abhorred  and  but  dimly  understood. 

Majendie  was  aware  that  she  had  now  no  attitude  to 
him  but  one  of  apathy  touched  by  repugnance.  He  ac- 
cepted the  apathy,  but  the  repugnance  he  could  not  accept. 
The  very  tenderness  and  fineness  of  his  nature  held  him 
back  from  that,  and  Anne  found  once  more  her  refuge  in 


The  Helpmate  229 

his  chivalry.  She  made  no  attempt  to  reconcile  it  with 
her  estimate  of  him. 

By  the  time  the  child  was  a  year  old  their  separation 
was  complete. 

As  yet  their  good  taste  shrank  from  any  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  rupture.  Majendie  did  his  best  to  cover  it 
by  a  certain  fineness  of  transition,  and  by  a  high  smooth 
courtesy  punctiliously  applied.  Anne  responded  on  the 
same  pure  note ;  for,  tried  by  courtesy,  her  breeding  rang 
golden  to  the  test. 

She  was  not  a  woman  (as  Majendie  had  reflected 
several  times  already)  to  trail  an  untidy  tragedy  through 
the  house;  she  had  never  desired  to  play  a  passionate 
part ;  and  she  was  glad  to  exchange  tragedy  for  the  decent 
drama  of  convention.  She  was  helped  both  by  her  weak- 
ness and  her  strength.  Her  soul  was  satisfied  with  its 
secret  communion  with  the  Unseen ;  her  heart  was  filled 
with  its  profound  affection  for  her  child;  her  mind  was 
appeased  by  appearances,  and  she  had  no  doubt  as  to  her 
ability  to  keep  them  up. 

It  was  Majendie  who  felt  the  strain.  His  mind  had  an 
undying  contempt  for  appearances ;  his  heart  and  soul  had 
looked  to  one  woman  for  satisfaction,  and  could  not  be 
appeased  with  anything  but  her.  Among  all  the  things 
he  had  accepted,  he  accepted  most  of  all  the  fact  that  she 
was  perfect.  Too  perfect  to  be  the  helpmate  of  his  im- 
perfection. He  shuddered  at  the  years  that  were  in 
store  for  him.  Always  to  do  without  her,  always  to  be 
tortured  by  the  fairness  of  her  presence  and  the  sweetness 
of  her  voice;  always  to  sit  up  late  and  rise  up  early,  in 
order  to  get  away  from  the  thought  of  them ;  to  come 
down  and  find  her  fairness  and  sweetness  smiling  politely 
at  him  over  the  teapot ;  to  hunt  in  the  morning-paper  for 


230  The  Helpmate 

news  to  interest  her;  to  mix  with  business  men  all  day, 
and  talk  business,  and  to  return  at  five  o'clock  and  find 
her,  punctual  and  perfect,  smiling  in  her  duty,  over  an- 
other teapot;  to  rack  his  brains  for  something  to  talk 
about  to  her;  not  to  be  allowed  to  mention  his  own 
friends,  but  to  have  to  feign  indestructible  interest  in  the 
Eliotts  and  the  Gardners;  to  dine  with  the  inspiration 
drawn  again  from  the  paper;  and  then,  perhaps,  to  be 
read  aloud  to  all  evening,  till  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed 
again.  That  was  how  his  days  went  on.  The  child  and 
Edie  were  his  only  accessible  sources  of  consolation.  But 
Edie  was  dying  by  inches;  and  he  had  to  suppress  his 
affection  for  the  child,  as  well  as  his  passion  for  the 
mother. 

For  that  was  the  thorn  in  Anne's  side  now.  The  child 
was  content  with  her  only  when  Majendie  was  not  there. 
The  moment  he  came  into  the  room  she  would  struggle 
from  her  mother's  lap,  and  crawl  frantically  to  his  feet. 
Her  tiny  face  curled  in  its  white,  angelic  smile  as  soon  as 
he  lifted  her  in  his  arms.  Little  Peggy  had  an  adorable 
way  of  turning  her  back  on  her  mother  and  tucking  her 
face  away  under  Majendie's  chin.  When  she  was  cross 
or  ailing  she  cried  for  Majendie,  and  refused  to  take  food 
or  medicine  from  any  one  but  him. 

He  was  sitting  one  day  in  the  nursery  with  the  little 
year-old  thing  on  his  knees,  feeding  her  deftly  from  a 
cup  of  warm  milk  that  she  had  pushed  away  when  pre- 
sented by  her  mother.  The  nurse  and  Nanna  looked 
kindly  on  the  spectacle  of  Majendie's  success,  while  his 
wife  watched  him  steadily  without  a  word.  The  nurse, 
presuming  on  her  privileges,  made  an  injudicious  remark. 

"She  won't  do  anything  for  anybody  but  her  daddy.  I 
never  saw  such  a  funny  little  girl." 


The  Helpmate  231 

"I  never  saw  such  a  shocking  little  flirt,"  said  Ma- 
jendie;  "she  takes  after  her  mother." 

"She's  the  living  image  of  you,  ma'am,"  said  Nanna, 
conscious  of  the  other's  blunder. 

"I  wish  she  had  my  strength,"  said  Anne,  in  a  voice 
fine  and  trenchant  as  a  sword. 

Nanna  and  the  nurse  retired  discreetly. 

The  parents  looked  at  each  other  over  the  frail  body 
of  the  little  girl.  Majendie's  face  had  flushed  under  his 
wife's  blow.  He  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of  Edith 
and  her  fate.  The  same  malady  had  appeared  in  more 
than  one  member  of  his  family,  as  Anne  was  well  aware. 
(Her  own  strain  was  pure.)  Instinctively  he  put  his 
hand  to  the  child's  spine.  Little  Peggy  sat  up  straight 
and  strong  enough.  And  another  thought  passed  through 
him.  His  eyes  conveyed  it  to  Anne  as  plainly  as  if  he  had 
said,  "I  don't  know  about  her  mother's  strength.  She's 
the  child  of  her  mother's  coldness." 

He  set  the  child  down  on  Anne's  lap,  told  her  to  be 
good  there,  and  left  them. 

Anne  saw  how  she  had  hurt  him,  and  was  visited  with 
an  unfamiliar  pang  of  self-reproach.  She  was  very  nice 
to  him  all  that  evening.  And  out  of  his  own  pain  a 
kinder  thought  came  to  him.  He  had  been  the  cause  of 
great  unhappiness  to  Anne.  There  might  be  a  sense  in 
which  the  child  was  suffering  from  her  mother's  martyr- 
dom. He  persuaded  himself  that  the  least  he  could  do 
was  to  leave  Anne  in  supreme  possession  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHAT  with  anxiety  about  his  daughter  and  his  sister, 
and  a  hopeless  attachment  to  his  wife,  Majendie's 
misery  became  so  acute  that  it  told  upon  his  health.  His 
friends,  Gorst  and  the  Hannays,  noticed  the  change  and 
spent  themselves  in  persistent  efforts  to  cheer  him.  And, 
at  times  when  his  need  of  distraction  became  imperious, 
he  declined  from  Anne's  lofty  domesticities  upon  the 
Hannays.  He  liked  to  go  over  in  the  evening,  and  sit 
with  Mrs.  Hannay,  and  talk  about  his  child.  Mrs.  Han- 
nay  was  never  tired  of  listening.  The  subject  drew  her 
out  quite  remarkably,  so  that  Mrs.  Hannay,  always  soft 
and  kind,  showed  at  her  very  softest  and  kindest.  To 
talk  to  her  was  like  resting  an  aching  head  upon  the  down 
cushion  to  which  it  was  impossible  not  to  compare  her. 
It  was  the  Hannays'  bitter  misfortune  that  they  had  no 
children;  but  this  frustration  had  left  them  hearts  more 
hospitably  open  to  their  friends. 

Mrs.  Hannay  called  in  Prior  Street,  at  stated  intervals, 
to  see  Edith  and  the  baby.  On  these  occasions  Anne,  if 
taken  unaware  by  Mrs.  Hannay,  was  always  perfect  and 
polite,  but  when  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Hannay  was  com- 
ing, she  contrived  adroitly  to  be  out.  Her  attitude  to  the 
Hannays  was  one  of  the  things  she  undoubtedly  meant  to 
keep  up.  The  natural  result  was  that  Majendie  was 
driven  to  an  increasing  friendliness,  by  way  of  making  up 
for  the  slights  the  poor  things  had  to  endure  from  his 
wife.  He  was  always  meaning  to  remonstrate  with  Anne, 

232 


The  Helpmate  233 

and  always  putting  off  the  uncomfortable  moment.  The 
subject  was  so  mixed  with  painful  matters  that  he  shrank 
from  handling  it.  But,  with  the  New  Year  following 
Peggy's  first  birthday,  circumstances  forced  him  to  take, 
once  for  all,  a  firm  stand.  Certain  entanglements  in  the 
affairs  of  Mr.  Gorst  had  called  for  his  intervention. 
There  had  been  important  developments  in  his  own  busi- 
ness ;  Majendie  was  about  to  enter  into  partnership  with 
Mr.  Hannay.  And  Anne  had  given  him  an  opportunity 
for  protest  by  expressing  her  unqualified  disapprobation 
of  Mrs.  Hannay.  Mrs.  Hannay  had  offended  grossly ;  she 
had  passed  the  limits;  having  no  instincts,  Anne  main- 
tained, to  tell  her  where  to  stop.  Mrs.  Hannay  had  a 
passion  for  Peggy  which  she  was  wholly  unable  to  con- 
ceal. Moved  by  a  tender  impulse  of  vicarious  mother- 
hood, she  had  sent  her  at  Christmas  a  present  of  a  little 
coat.  Anne  had  acknowledged  the  gift  in  a  note  so  frigid 
that  it  cut  Mrs.  Hannay  to  the  heart.  She  had  wept  over 
it,  and  had  been  found  weeping  by  her  husband,  who 
mentioned  the  incident  to  Majendie. 

It  was  more  than  Majendie  could  bear ;  and  that  night, 
in  the  drawing-room  (Anne  had  left  off  sitting  in  the 
study.  She  said  it  smelt  of  smoke),  he  entered  on  an 
explanation,  full,  brief,  and  clear. 

"I  must  ask  you,"  he  said,  "to  behave  a  little  better  to 
poor  Mrs.  Hannay.  You've  never  known  her  anything 
but  kind,  and  sweet,  and  forgiving;  and  your  treatment 
of  her  has  been  simply  barbarous." 

"Indeed?" 

"I  think  so.  There  are  reasons  why  you  will  have  to 
ask  the  Hannays  to  dinner  next  week,  and  reasons  why 
you  will  have  to  be  nice  to  them." 

"What  reasons?" 


234  The  Helpmate 

"One's  enough.  I'm  going  into  partnership  with  Law- 
son  Hannay." 

She  stared.     The  announcement  was  a  blow  to  her. 

"Is  that  a  reason  why  I  should  make  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Hannay?" 

"It's  a  reason  why  you  should  be  civil  to  her.  You  will 
send  an  invitation  to  Gorst  at  the  same  time." 

She  winced.     "That  I  cannot  do." 

"You  can,  dear,  and  you  will.  Gorst's  in  a  pretty  bad 
way.  I  knew  he  would  be.  He's  got  entangled  now 
with  some  wretched  girl,  and  I've  got  to  disentangle 
him.  The  only  way  to  do  it  is  to  get  him  to  come  here 
again." 

"And  /  am  to  write  to  him  ?"  Her  tone  proclaimed  the 
idea  preposterous. 

"It  will  come  best  from  you,  as  it's  you  who  have  kept 
him  out  of  the  house.  You  must,  please,  put  your  own 
feelings  aside,  and  simply  do  what  I  ask  you." 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  writing-place,  and  prepared  a 
place  for  her  there. 

Anne  said  nothing.  She  was  considering  how  far  it 
was  possible  to  oppose  him.  It  had  always  been  his  way 
to  yield  greatly  in  little  things ;  to  drift  and  let  "things" 
drift  till  he  created  an  illusory  impression  of  his  weakness. 
\  Then  when  "things"  had  gone  too  far,  he  would  rise,  as 
he  had  risen  now,  and  take  his  stand  with  a  strength  the 
more  formidable  because  it  came  as  a  complete  surprise. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "it's  got  to  be  done ;  and  you  may  as 
well  do  it  at  once  and  get  it  over." 

She  gave  one  glance  at  him,  as  if  she  measured  his  will 
against  hers.  Then  she  obeyed. 

She  handed  the  notes  to  him  in  silence. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  he,  laying  down  her  note  to 


The  Helpmate  235 

Gorst.  "And  this  couldn't  be  better.  I'm  glad  you've 
written  so  charmingly  to  Mrs.  Hannay." 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  ever  seemed  ungracious  to  her,  Wal- 
ter. But  the  other  note  I  wrote  under  compulsion,  as  you 
know." 

"I  don't  care  how  you  did  it,  my  dear,  so  long  as  it's 
done."  He  slipped  the  note  to  Mrs.  Hannay  into  his 
pocket. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"I'm  going  to  take  this  myself  to  Mrs.  Hannay." 

"What  are  you  going  to  say  to  her  ?" 

"The  first  thing  that  comes  into  my  head." 

She  called  him  back  as  he  was  going.  "Walter — have 
you  paid  Mr.  Hannay  that  money  you  owed  him  ?" 

He  stood  still,  astounded  at  her  knowledge,  and  in- 
clined for  one  moment  to  dispute  her  right  to  question 
him. 

"I  have,"  he  said  sternly.     "I  paid  it  yesterday." 

She  breathed  freely. 

Majendie  found  Mrs.  Hannay  by  her  fireside,  alone  but 
cheerful.  She  gave  him  a  little  anxious  look  as  she  took 
his  hand.  "Wallie,"  said  she,  "you're  depressed.  What 
is  it?" 

He  owned  to  the  charge,  but  declined  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  himself. 

She  settled  him  comfortably  among  her  cushions;  she 
told  him  to  light  his  pipe ;  and  while  he  smoked  she  poured 
out  consolation  as  she  best  knew  how.  She  drew  him  on 
to  talk  of  Peggy. 

"That  child's  going  to  be  a  comfort  to  you,  Wallie. 
See  if  she  isn't.  I  wanted  you  to  have  a  little  son,  because 
I  thought  he'd  be  more  of  a  companion.  But  I'm  glad 
now  it's  been  a  little  daughter." 


236  The  Helpmate 

"So  am  I.  Anne  would  have  fidgeted  frightfully  about 
a  son.  But  Peggy '11  be  a  help  to  her." 

"And  what  helps  her  will  help  you,  my  dear;  mind 
that." 

"Oh,  rather,"  he  said  vaguely.  "The  worst  of  it  is  she 
isn't  very  strong.  Peggy,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  rubbish,"  said  Mrs.  Hannay.  "/  was  a  peaky, 
piny  baby,  and  look  at  me  now !" 

He  looked  at  her  and  laughed. 

"Sarah's  coming  in  this  evening,"  said  she.  "I  hope 
you  won't  mind." 

"Why  should  I?" 

"Why,  indeed?  Nobody  need  mind  poor  Sarah  now. 
I  don't  know  what's  happened.  She  went  abroad  last 
year,  and  came  back  quite  chastened.  I  suppose  you 
know  it's  all  come  to  nothing?" 

"What  has?" 

"Her  marriage." 

"Oh,  her  marriage.     She  has  told  you  about  it  ?" 

"My  dear,  she's  told  everybody  about  it.  He  was  an 
angel ;  and  he's  been  going  to  marry  her  for  the  last  four 
years.  I  say,  Wallie,  do  you  think  he  really  was?" 

"Do  I  think  he  really  was  an  angel  ?  Or  do  I  think  he 
really  was  going  to  marry  her  ?" 

"If  he  was,  you  know,  perhaps  he  wouldn't." 

"Oh  no,  if  he  was,  he  would ;  because  he  wouldn't  know 
what  he  was  in  for.  Anyhow  the  angel  has  flown,  has 
he  ?  I  fancy  some  rumour  must  have  troubled  his  bright 
essence." 

Mrs.  Hannay  suppressed  her  own  opinion,  which  was 
that  the  angel,  wings  and  all,  was  merely  a  stage  property 
in  the  comedy  of  respectability  that  poor  Sarah  had  been 
playing  in  so  long.  He  was  one  of  many  brilliant  and 


The  Helpmate  237 

entertaining  fictions  which  had  helped  to  restore  her  to 
her  place  in  society.  "And  you  really,"  she  repeated, 
"don't  mind  meeting  her?" 

"I  don't  think  I  mind  anything  very  much  now." 

The  entrance  of  the  lady  showed  him  how  very  little 
there  really  was  to  mind.  Lady  Cayley  had  (as  her 
looking-glass  informed  her)  both  gone  off  and  come  on 
quite  remarkably  in  the  last  three  years.  Her  face  pre- 
sented a  paler,  softer,  larger  surface  to  the  eye.  Her  own 
eye  had  gained  in  meaning  and  her  mouth  in  sensuous 
charm ;  while  her  figure  had  acquired  a  quality  to  which 
she  herself  gave  the  name  of  "presence."  Other  women 
of  forty  might  go  about  looking  like  incarnate  elegies 
on  their  dead  youth;  Lady  Cayley's  "presence"  was  as 
some  great  ode,  celebrating  the  triumph  of  maturity. 

She  took  the  place  Mrs.  Hannay  had  vacated,  settling 
down  by  Majendie  among  the  cushions.  "How  delight- 
fully unexpected,"  she  murmured,  "to  meet  you  here." 

She  ignored  the  occasion  of  their  last  meeting,  just  as 
she  had  then  ignored  the  circumstances  of  their  last  part- 
ing. Lady  Cayley  owed  her  success  to  her  immense  ca- 
pacity for  ignoring.  In  her  way,  she  lived  the  glorious 
life  of  fantasy,  lapped  in  the  freshest  and  most  beautiful 
illusions.  Not  but  what  she  saw  through  every  one  of 
them,  her  own  and  other  people's ;  for  Lady  Cayley's  in- 
telligence was  marvellously  subtle  and  astute.  But  the 
fierce  will  by  which  she  accomplished  her  desires  urged 
her  intelligence  to  reject  and  to  destroy  whatever  consid- 
eration was  hostile  to  the  illusion.  It  was  thus  that  she 
had  achieved  respectability. 

But  respectability  accomplished  had  lost  all  the  charm 
of  its  young  appeal  to  the  imagination;  and  it  was  not 
agreeing  very  well  with  Lady  Cayley  just  at  present. 


238  The  Helpmate 

The  sight  of  Majendie  revived  in  her  memories  of  the 
happy  past. 

"Mr.  Majendie,  why  have  I  not  met  you  here  before?" 

Some  instinct  told  her  that  if  she  wished  him  to  ap- 
prove of  her,  she  must  approach  him  with  respect.  He 
had  grown  terribly  unapproachable  with  time. 

He  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  "We  did  meet,  more 
than  three  years  ago." 

"I  remember."  Lady  Cayley's  face  shone  with  the  il- 
lumination of  her  memory.  "So  we  did.  Just  after  you 
were  married  ?" 

She  paused  discreetly.  "You  haven't  brought  Mrs. 
Majendie  with  you?" 

"N — no — er — she  isn't  very  well.  She  doesn't  go  out 
much  at  night." 

"Indeed?  I  did  hear,  didn't  I,  that  you  had  a  lit- 
tle  "  She  paused,  if  anything,  more  discreetly  than 

before. 

"A  little  girl.    Yes.    That  history  is  a  year  old  now." 

"Wallie!"  cried  Mrs.  Hannay,  "it's  a  year  and  three 
months.  And  a  darling  she  is,  too." 

"I'm  sure  she  is,"  said  Sarah  in  the  softest  voice  imag- 
inable. There  was  another  pause,  the  discreetest  of  them 
all.  "Is  she  like  Mr.  Majendie?" 

"No,  she's  like  her  mother."  Mrs.  Hannay  was  in- 
stantly transported  with  the  blessed  vision  of  Peggy. 
"She's  got  blue,  blue  eyes,  Sarah;  and  the  dearest  little 
goldy  ducks'  tails  curling  over  the  nape  of  her  neck." 

Majendie's  sad  face  brightened  under  praise  of  Peggy. 

"Sweet,"  murmured  Sarah.  "I  love  them  when  they're 
like  that."  She  saw  how  she  could  flatter  him.  If  he 
loved  to  talk  about  the  baby,  she  could  talk  about  babies 
till  all  was  blue.  They  talked  for  more  than  half  an  hour. 


The  Helpmate  239 

It  was  the  prettiest,  most  innocent  conversation  in  which 
Sarah  had  ever  taken  part. 

When  Majendie  had  left  (he  seldom  kept  it  up  later 
than  ten  o'clock),  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Hannay. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  said  she.  "He  looks 
awful." 

"He's  married  the  wrong  woman,  my  dear.  That's 
what's  the  matter  with  him." 

"I  knew  he  would.    He  was  born  to  do  it." 

"Thank  goodness,"  said  Mrs.  Hannay,  "he's  got  the 
child." 

"Oh— the  child!" 

She  intimated  by  a  shrug  how  much  she  thought  of 
that  consolation. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  new  firm  of  Hannay  &  Majendie  promised  to 
do  well.  Hannay  had  a  genius  for  business,  and 
Majendie  was  carried  along  by  the  inspiration  of  his  sen- 
ior partner.  Hannay  was  the  soul  of  the  firm  and  Ma- 
jendie its  brain.  He  was,  Hannay  maintained,  an  ideal 
partner,  the  indefatigable  master  of  commercial  detail. 

The  fourth  year  of  his  marriage  found  Majendie  su- 
premely miserable  at  home ;  and  established,  in  his  office, 
before  a  fair,  wide  prospect  of  financial  prosperity.  The 
office  had  become  his  home.  He  worked  there  early  and 
late,  with  a  dumb,  indomitable  industry.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  Majendie  was  beginning  to  take  an  interest 
in  his  business.  Disappointed  in  the  only  form  of  happi- 
ness that  appealed  to  him,  he  applied  himself  gravely  and 
steadily  to  shipping,  finding  some  personal  satisfaction  in 
the  thought  that  Anne  and  Peggy  would  benefit  by  this 
devotion.  There  was  Peggy's  education  to  be  thought 
of.  When  she  was  older  they  would  travel.  There  would 
be  greater  material  comfort  and  a  wider  life  for  Anne. 
He  himself  counted  for  little  in  his  schemes.  At  thirty- 
five  he  found  himself,  with  all  his  flames  extinguished, 
settling  down  into  the  dull  habits  and  the  sober  hopes 
of  middle  age. 

To  the  mind  of  Gorst,  the  spectacle  of  Majendie  in  his 
office  was,  as  he  informed  him,  too  sad  for  words.  To 
Majendie's  mind  nothing  could  well  be  sadder  than  the 
private  affairs  of  Gorst,  to  which  he  was  frequently  re- 
quired to  give  his  best  attention. 

240 


The  Helpmate  241 

The  prodigal  had  been  at  last  admitted  to  Prior  Street 
on  a  footing  of  his  own.  He  blossomed  out  in  perpetual 
previous  engagements  whenever  he  was  asked  to  dine ; 
but  he  had  made  a  bargain  with  Majendie  by  which  he 
claimed  unlimited  opportunity  for  seeing  Edie  as  the 
price  of  his  promise  to  reform.  This  time  Majendie  was 
obliged  to  intimate  to  him  that  his  reform  must  be  re- 
garded as  the  price  of  his  admission. 

For,  this  time,  in  the  long  year  of  his  exile,  the  prodi- 
gal's prodigality  had  exceeded  the  measure  of  all  former 
years.  And,  to  his  intense  surprise,  he  found  that  Ma- 
jendie drew  the  line  somewhere.  In  consequence  of  this, 
and  of  the  "entanglement"  to  which  Majendie  had  once 
referred,  the  aspect  of  Gorst's  affairs  was  peculiarly  dark 
and  threatening. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  they  gathered  to  their  climax. 
One  afternoon  Gorst  appeared  in  Majendie's  office,  sat 
down  with  a  stricken  air,  and  appealed  to  his  friend  to 
help  him  out. 

"I  thought  you  were  out,"  said  Majendie. 

"So  I  am.  It's  because  I'm  so  well  out  that  I'm  in  for 
it.  Evans's  have  turned  her  off.  She's  down  on  her  luck 
— and — well — you  see,  now  she  wants  me  to  marry 
her." 

"I  see.     Well " 

"Well,  of  course  I  can't.  Maggie's  a  dear  little  thing, 
but — you  see — I'm  not  the  first." 

"You're  sure  of  that?" 

"Certain.  She  confessed,  poor  girl.  Besides,  I  knew 
it.  I'm  not  a  brute.  I'd  marry  her  if  I'd  been  the  first 
and  only  one.  I'd  marry  her  if  I  were  sure  I'd  be  the 
last.  I'd  marry  her,  as  it  is,  if  I  cared  enough  for  her. 
Always  provided  I  could  keep  her.  But  you  know " 


242  The  Helpmate 

"You  don't  care  and  you  can't  keep  her.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  for  her?" 

Gorst  in  his  anguish  glared  at  Majendie. 

"I  can't  do  anything.  That's  the  damnedest  part  of  it. 
I'm  simply  cleaned  out,  till  I  get  a  berth  somewhere." 

Majendie  looked  grave.  This  time  the  prodigal  had 
devoured  his  living.  "You're  going  to  leave  her  there, 
then.  Is  that  it?" 

"No,  it  isn't.  There's  another  fellow  who'd  marry  her, 
if  she'd  have  him,  but  she  won't.  That's  it." 

"Because  she's  fond  of  you,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  being  fond,"  said  Gorst  sulk- 
ily. "She's  fond  of  anybody." 

"And  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?" 

"I'd  be  awfully  glad  if  you'd  go  and  see  her." 

"See  her?" 

"Yes,  and  explain  the  situation.  I  can't.  She  won't 
let  me.  She  goes  mad  when  I  try.  She  keeps  on  wor- 
rying at  it  from  morning  to  night.  When  I  don't  go, 
she  writes.  And  it  knocks  me  all  to  pieces." 

"If  she's  that  sort,  what  good  do  you  suppose  I'll  do  by 
seeing  her?" 

"Oh,  she'll  listen  to  reason  from  any  one  but  me.  And 
there  are  things  you  can  say  to  her  that  I  can't.  I  say, 
will  you?" 

"I  will  if  you  like.  But  I  don't  suppose  it  will  do 
one  atom  of  good.  It  never  does,  you  know.  Where 
does  the  woman  live?" 

He  took  down  the  address  on  the  visiting-card  that 
Gorst  gave  him. 

Between  six  and  seven  that  evening  he  presented  him- 
self at  one  of  many  tiny,  two-storied,  red  brick  and 
stucco  houses  that  stood  in  a  long  flat  street,  each  with 


The  Helpmate  243 

a  narrow  mat  of  grass  laid  before  its  bay-window.  It 
was  the  new  quarter  of  the  respectable  milliners  and 
clerks;  and  Majendie  gathered  that  the  prodigal  had 
taken  some  pains  to  lodge  his  Maggie  with  decent  people. 
He  reasoned  farther  that  such  an  arrangement  could 
only  be  possible,  given  the  complete  rupture  of  their 
relations. 

A  clean,  kindly  woman  opened  the  door.  She  admitted 
with  some  show  of  hesitation  that  Miss  Forrest  was  at 
home,  and  led  him  to  a  sitting-room  on  the  upper  floor. 
As  he  followed  her  he  heard  a  door  open;  a  dress  rus- 
tled on  the  landing,  and  another  door  opened  and  shut 
again. 

Maggie  was  not  in  the  room  as  Majendie  entered. 
From  signs  of  recent  occupation  he  gathered  that  she 
had  risen  up  and  fled  at  his  approach. 

The  woman  went  into  the  adjoining  room  and  re- 
turned, politely  embarrassed.  "Miss  Forrest  is  very 
sorry,  sir,  but  she  can't  see  anybody." 

He  wrote  his  name  on  Gorst's  card  and  sent  her  back 
with  it. 

Then  Maggie  came  to  him, 

He  remembered  long  afterwards  the  manner  of  her 
coming;  how  he  heard  her  blow  her  poor  nose  out- 
side the  door  before  she  entered;  how  she  stood  on  the 
threshold  and  looked  at  him,  and  made  him  a  stiff  little 
bow;  how  she  approached  shyly  and  slowly,  with  her 
arms  hanging  awkwardly  at  her  sides,  and  her  eyes  fixed 
on  him  in  terror,  as  if  she  were  drawn  to  him  against 
her  will;  how  she  held  Gorst's  card  tight  in  her  poor 
little  hand;  how  her  eyes  had  foreknowledge  of  his 
errand  and  besought  him  to  spare  her;  and  how  in  her 
awkwardness  she  yet  preserved  her  inimitable  grace. 


244  The  Helpmate 

He  could  hardly  believe  that  this  was  the  girl  he  had 
once  seen  in  Evans's  shop  when  he  was  buying  flowers 
for  Anne.  The  girl  in  Evans's  shop  was  only  a  pretty 
girl.  Maggie,  at  five-and-twenty,  living  under  Gorst's 
"protection,"  and  attired  according  to  his  taste,  was 
almost  (but  not  quite)  a  pretty  lady.  Maggie  was  neither 
inhumanly  tall,  nor  inhumanly  slender;  she  was  simply 
and  supremely  feminine.  She  was  dressed  delicately  in 
black,  a  choice  which  made  brilliant  the  beauty  of  her 
colouring.  Her  hair  was  abundant,  fawn-dark,  laced 
with  gold.  Her  face  was  a  full  short  oval.  Its  whiteness 
was  the  tinged  whiteness  of  pure  cream,  with  a  rose  in 
it  that  flamed,  under  Maggie's  swift  emotions,  to  a  sud- 
den red.  She  had  soft  grey  eyes  dappled  with  a  tawny 
green.  Her  little  high-arched  nose  was  sensitive  to  the 
constant  play  of  her  upper  lip ;  and  that  lip  was  so  short 
that  it  couldn't  always  cover  the  tips  of  her  little  white 
teeth.  Majendie  judged  that  Maggie's  mouth  was  the 
prettiest  feature  in  her  face,  and  there  was  something 
about  it  that  reminded  him,  preposterously,  of  Anne. 
The  likeness  bothered  him,  till  he  discovered  that  it  lay 
in  that  trick  of  the  lifted  lip.  But  the  small  charm  that 
was  so  brief  and  divine  an  accident  in  Anne  was  perpetual 
in  Maggie.  He  thought  he  should  get  tired  of  it  in 
time. 

Maggie  had  been  crying.  Her  sobs  had  left  her  lips 
still  parted ;  her  eyelids  were  swollen ;  there  were  little 
ashen  shades  and  rosy  flecks  all  over  her  pretty  face. 
Her  diminutive  muslin  handkerchief  was  limp  with  her 
tears.  As  he  looked  at  her  he  realised  that  he  had  a  pain- 
ful and  disgusting  task  before  him,  and  that  there  would 
be  no  intelligence  in  the  girl  to  help  him  out. 

He  bade  her  sit  down;  for  poor  Maggie  stood  before 


The  Helpmate  245 

him  humbly.  He  told  her  briefly  that  his  friend,  Mr. 
Gorst,  had  asked  him  to  explain  things  to  her;  and  he 
was  beginning  to  explain  them,  very  gently,  when 
Maggie  cut  him  short. 

"It's  not  that  I  want  to  be  married,"  she  said  sadly. 
"Mr.  Mumford  would  marry  me." 

"Well — then "  he  suggested;  but  Maggie  shook 

her  head.  "Isn't  he  nice  to  you,  Mr.  Mumford?" 

"He's  nice  enough.  But  I  can't  marry  'im.  I  won't. 
I  don't  love  'im.  I  can't — Mr.  Magendy — because  of 
Charlie." 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  thought  he  would  compel 
her  to  marry  Mr.  Mumford. 

"Oh  dear "  said  Maggie,  surprised  at  herself,  as 

she  began  to  cry  again. 

She  pressed  the  little  muslin  handkerchief  to  her  eyes ; 
not  making  a  show  of  her  grief ;  but  furtive,  rather,  and 
ashamed. 

And  Majendie  took  in  all  the  pitifulness  of  her  sweet, 
predestined  nature.  Pretty  Maggie  could  never  have 
been  led  astray;  she  had  gone  out,  fervent  and  swift, 
dream-drunk,  to  meet  her  destiny.  She  was  a  creature 
of  ardours,  of  tenderness,  and  of  some  perverse  instinct 
that  it  would  be  crude  to  call  depravity.  Where  her 
heart  led,  her  flesh,  he  judged,  had  followed ;  that  was 
all.  Her  brain  had  been  passive  in  her  sad  affairs. 
Maggie  had  never  schemed,  or  calculated,  or  deliberated. 
She  had  only  felt. 

"See  here,"  he  said.  "Charlie  can't  marry  you.  He 
can't  marry  anybody." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  he's  too  poor." 

"I  know  he's  poor." 


246  The  Helpmate 

"And  you  wouldn't  be  happy  if  he  did  marry  you.  He 
couldn't  make  you  happy." 

"I'd  be  unhappy,  then." 

"Yes.  And  he'd  be  unhappy,  too.  Is  that  what  you 
want?" 

"No — no — no!     You  don't  understand." 

"I'll  try  to.    What  do  you  want  ?    Tell  me." 

"To  help  him." 

"You  can't  help  him,"  he  said  softly. 

"I  couldn't  help  him  if  'e  was  rich.  I  can  help  him 
if  he's  poor." 

He  smiled.    "How  do  you  make  that  out,  Maggie?" 

"Well — he  ought  to  marry  a  lady,  I  know.  But  he 
can't  marry  a  lady.  She'd  cost  him  pounds  and  pounds. 
If  he  married  me  I'd  cost  him  nothing.  I'd  work  for 
him." 

Majendie  was  startled  at  this  reasoning.  Maggie  was 
more  intelligent  than  he  had  thought. 

She  went  on.  "I  can  cook,  I  can  do  housework,  I 

can  sew.  I'm  learning  dressmaking.  Look "  She 

held  up  a  coarse  lining  she  had  been  stitching  at  when 
he  came.  From  its  appearance  he  judged  that  Maggie 
was  as  yet  a  novice  in  her  art. 

"I'd  work  my  ringers  to  the  bone  for  him." 

"And  you  think  he'd  be  happy  seeing  you  do  that? 
A  gentleman  can't  let  his  wife  work  for  him.  He  has  to 
work  for  her."  He  paused.  "And  there's  another  rea- 
son, Maggie,  why  he  can't  marry  you." 

Maggie's  head  drooped.  "I  know,"  she  said.  "But 
I  thought — if  he  was  poor — he  wouldn't  mind  so  much. 
They  don't,  sometimes." 

"I  don't  think  you  quite  know  what  I  mean." 

"I  do.     You  mean  he's  afraid.     He  won't  trust  me. 


The  Helpmate  247 

He  doesn't  think  I'm  very  good.  But  I  would  be — if  he 
married  me — I  would — I  would  indeed." 

"Of  course  you  would.  Whatever  happens  you're 
going  to  be  good.  That  wasn't  what  I  meant  by  the 
other  reason." 

Her  face  flamed.    "Has  he  left  off  caring  for  me?" 

He  was  silent,  and  the  flame  died  in  her  face. 

"Does  he  care  for  somebody  else?" 

"It  would  be  better  for  you  if  you  could  think  so." 

"/  know,"  she  said;  "it's  the  lady  he  used  to  send 
flowers  to.  I  thought  it  was  all  right.  I  thought  it  was 
funerals." 

She  sat  very  still,  taking  it  in. 

"Is  he  going  to  marry  her?" 

"No.    He  isn't  going  to  marry  her." 

"She's  not  got  enough  money,  I  suppose.  She  can't 
help  him." 

"You  must  leave  him  free  to  marry  somebody  who 
can." 

He  waited  to  see  what  she  would  do.  He  expected 
tears,  and  a  storm  of  jealous  rage.  But  all  Maggie  did 
was  to  sit  stiller  than  ever,  while  her  tears  gathered, 
and  fell,  and  gathered  again. 

Majendie  rose.  "I  may  tell  Mr.  Gorst  that  you  accept 
his  explanation?  That  you  understand?" 

"Am  I  never  to  see  him  again?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"Nor  write  to  him?" 

"It's  better  not.     It  only  worries  him." 

She  looked  round  her,  dazed  by  the  destruction  of  her 
dream. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  then?    Where  am  I  to  go  to?" 

"Stay  where  you  are,  if  you're  comfortable.     Your 


248  The  Helpmate 

rent  will  be  paid  for  you,  and  you  shall  have  a  small 
allowance." 

"But  who's  going  to  give  it  me?" 

"Mr.  Gorst  would,  if  he  could.    As  he  cannot,  I  am." 

"You  mustn't,"  said  she.    "I  can't  take  it  from  you." 

He  had  approached  this  point  with  a  horrible  dread 
lest  she  should  misunderstand  him. 

"Better  to  take  it  from  me  than  from  him,  or  any- 
body else,"  he  said  significantly ;  "if  it  must  be." 

But  Maggie  had  not  misunderstood. 

"I  can  work,"  she  said.    "I  can  pay  a  little  now." 

"No,  no.  Never  mind  about  that.  Keep  it — keep  all 
you  earn." 

"I  can't  keep  it.  I'll  pay  you  back  again.  I'll  work  my 
fingers  to  the  bone." 

"Oh,  not  for  me"  he  said,  laughing,  as  he  took  up  his 
hat  to  go. 

Maggie  lifted  her  sad  head,  and  faced  him  with  all 
her  candour. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "for  you." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MAJENDIE  owned  to  a  pang  of  shame  as  he  turned 
from  Maggie's  door.  In  justice  to  Gorst  it  could 
not  be  said  that  he  had  betrayed  the  passionate,  per- 
verted creature.  And  yet  there  was  a  sense  in  which 
Maggie's  betrayal  cried  to  Heaven,  like  the  destruction 
of  an  innocent.  Majendie's  finer  instinct  had  surren- 
dered to  the  charm  of  her  appealing  and  astounding 
purity,  by  which  he  meant  her  cleanness  from  the  mer- 
cenary taint.  He  had  seen  himself  contending,  grossly, 
with  a  fierce  little  vulgar  schemer,  who  (he  had  been 
convinced)  would  hang  on  to  poor  Gorst's  honour  by 
fingers  of  a  murderous  tenacity.  His  own  experience 
helped  him  to  the  vision.  And  Maggie  had  come  to  him, 
helpless  as  an  injured  child,  and  feverish  from  her  hurt. 
He  had  asked  her  what  she  had  wanted  with  Gorst,  and 
it  seemed  that  what  Maggie  wanted  was  "to  help  him." 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  wouldn't  be  in  Gorst's  place 
for  a  good  deal,  to  have  that  on  his  concience. 

As  it  happened,  the  prodigal's  conscience  was  by  no 
means  easy.  He  called  in  Prior  Street  that  evening  to 
learn  the  result  of  his  friend's  intervention.  He  sub- 
mitted humbly  to  Majendie's  judgment  of  his  conduct. 
He  agreed  that  he  had  been  a  brute  to  Maggie,  that  he 
might  certainly  do  worse  than  marry  her,  and  that  his 
best  reason  for  not  marrying  her  was  his  knowledge  that 
Maggie  was  ten  times  too  good  for  him.  He  was  only 
disposed  to  be  critical  of  his  friend's  diplomacy  when  he 
learned  that  Majendie  had  not  succeeded  in  persuading 

249 


250  The  Helpmate 

Maggie  to  marry  Mr.  Mumford.  But,  in  the  end,  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  convinced  of  the  futility,  not  to 
say  the  indecency,  of  pressing  Mr.  Mumford  upon  the 
girl  at  the  moment  of  her  fine  renunciation.  He  admitted 
that  he  had  known  all  along  that  Maggie  had  her  own 
high  innocence.  And  when  he  realised  the  extent  to 
which  Majendie  had  "got  him  out  of  it,"  his  conscience 
was  roused  by  a  salutary  shock  of  shame. 

But  it  was  to  Edith  that  he  presented  the  perfection 
of  his  penitence.  From  his  stillness  and  abasement  she 
gathered  that,  this  time,  her  prodigal  had  fallen  far. 
That  night,  before  his  departure,  he  confirmed  her  sad 
suspicions. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  he  said  stiffly,  "to  let 
me  come  again." 

"Good  of  me?  Charlie!"  Her  eyes  and  voice  re- 
proached him  for  this  strained  formality. 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Majendie's  perfectly  right.  I've  justified 
her  bad  opinion  of  me." 

"I  don't  know  that  you've  justified  it.  I  don't  know 
what  you've  done.  No  more  does  she,  my  dear.  And 
you  didn't  think,  did  you,  that  Walter  and  I  were  going 
to  give  you  up?" 

"I'd  have  forgiven  you  if  you  had." 

"I  couldn't  have  forgiven  myself,  or  Walter." 

"Oh,  Walter — if  it  hadn't  been  for  him  I  should  have 
gone  to  pieces  this  time.  He's  pulled  me  out  of  the 
tightest  place  I  ever  was  in." 

"I'm  sure  he  was  very  glad  to  do  it." 

"I  wish  to  goodness  I  could  do  the  same  for  him." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Charlie?" 

The  prodigal  became  visibly  embarrassed.  He  seemed 
to  be  considering  the  propriety  of  a  perfect  frankness. 


The  Helpmate  251 

"I  say,  you  don't  mind  my  asking,  do  you  ?  Has  any- 
thing gone  wrong  with  him  and  Mrs.  Majendie?" 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I've  got  a  sort  of  notion  that  she 
doesn't  understand  him.  She's  never  realised  in  the 
least  the  stuff  he's  made  of.  He's  the  finest  man  I  know 
on  God's  earth,  and  somehow,  it  strikes  me  that  she 
doesn't  see  it." 

"Not  always,  I'm  afraid." 

"Well — see  here — you'll  tell  her,  won't  you,  what  he's 
done  for  me?  That  ought  to  open  her  eyes  a  bit.  You 
can  give  me  away  as  much  as  ever  you  like,  if  you  want 
to  rub  it  in.  Only  tell  her  that  I've  chucked  it — chucked 
it  for  good.  He's  made  me  loathe  myself.  Tell  her  that 
I'm  not  as  bad  as  she  thinks  me,  but  that  I  probably 
would  be  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him.  And  you,  Edie,  only 
I'm  going  to  leave  you  out  of  it." 

"You  certainly  may." 

"It's  because  she  knows  all  that  already ;  and  the  point 
is  to  get  her  to  appreciate  him." 

Edith  smiled.  "I  see.  And  I'm  to  make  what  I  like  of 
you,  if  I  can  only  get  her  to  appreciate  him?" 

"Yes.  Tell  her  that,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I  respect 
her  attitude  profoundly." 

"Very  well.  I'll  tell  her  just  what  you've  told 
me." 

She  spoke  of  it  the  next  day,  when  Anne  came  to  read 
to  her  in  the  afternoon.  Anne  was  as  punctual  as  ever 
in  her  devotion,  but  the  passion  of  it  had  been  transferred 
to  Peggy.  The  child  was  with  them,  playing  feebly  at 
her  mother's  knee,  and  Anne's  mood  was  propitious.  She 
listened  intently.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had 
brought  any  sympathy  into  a  discussion  of  the  prodigal. 


252  The  Helpmate 

"Did  he  tell  you,"  said  she,  "what  Walter  did  for 
him?" 

"No." 

"Nor  what  had  happened?" 

"No.  I  didn't  like  to  ask  him.  Whatever  it  was,  it 
has  gone  very  deep  with  him.  Something  has  made 
a  tremendous  difference." 

"Has  it  made  him  change  his  ways?" 

"I  believe  it  has.  You  see,  Nancy,  that's  what  Walter 
was  trying  for.  He  always  had  that  sort  of  hold  on  him. 
That  was  why  he  was  so  anxious  not  to  have  him  turned 
away." 

Anne's  face  was  about  to  harden,  when  Peggy  gave 
the  sad  little  cry  that  brought  her  mother's  arms  about 
her.  Peggy  had  been  trying  vainly  to  climb  into  Anne's 
lap.  She  was  now  lifted  up  and  held  there  while  her 
feet  trampled  the  broad  maternal  knees,  and  her  hands 
played  with  Anne's  face;  stroking  and  caressing; 
smoothing  her  tragic  brow  to  tenderness ;  tracing  with 
soft,  attentive  fingers  the  line  of  her  small,  close  mouth, 
until  it  smiled. 

Anne  seized  the  little  hands  and  kissed  them.  "My 
lamb,"  she  said,  "what  are.  you  doing  to  your  poor 
mother's  face?"  She  did  not  see,  as  Edith  saw,  that 
Peggy,  a  consummate  little  sculptor,  was  moulding  her 
mother's  face  into  the  face  of  love. 

"I  should  never  have  dreamed,"  said  Anne,  "of  turn- 
ing him  away,  if  I  had  thought  he  was  really  going  to 
reform.  Besides,  I  was  afraid  he  would  be  bad  for 
Walter." 

"It  didn't  strike  you  that  Walter  might  be  good  for 
him?" 

"It  struck  me  that  I  had  to  be  strong  for  Walter." 


The  Helpmate  253 

"Ah,  Walter  can  be  strong  for  all  of  us."  She  paused 
on  that,  to  let  it  sink  in.  Anne's  face  was  thoughtful. 

"Anne,  if  you  believed  that  all  I've  said  to  you  was 
true,  would  you  still  object  to  having  Charlie  here?" 

"Certainly  not.    I  would  be  the  first  to  welcome  him." 

"Then,  will  you  write  to  him  of  your  own  accord, 
and  tell  him  that,  if  what  I've  told  you  is  true,  you'll 
be  glad  to  see  him  ?  He  knows  why  you  couldn't  receive 
him  before,  dear,  and  he  respects  you  for  it." 

Anne  thought  better  of  Mr.  Gorst  for  that  respect.  It 
was  the  proper  attitude ;  the  attitude  she  had  once  vainly 
expected  Majendie  to  take. 

"After  all,  what  have  I  to  do  with  it?  He  comes  to 
see  you." 

"Yes,  dear ;  but  I  shan't  always  be  here  for  him  to  see. 
And  if  I  thought  that  you  would  help  Walter  to  look 
after  him — will  you  ?" 

"I  will  do  what  I  can.    My  little  one !" 

Anne  bowed  her  head  over  the  soft  forehead  of  her 
little  one.  She  had  a  glad  and  solemn  vision  of  herself 
as  the  protector  of  the  penitent.  It  was  in  keeping  with 
all  the  sanctities  and  pieties  she  cherished.  She  had  not 
forgotten  that  Canon  Wharton  (a  saint  if  ever  there  was 
one)  had  enjoined  on  her  the  utmost  charity  to  Mr. 
Gorst,  should  he  turn  from  his  iniquity. 

She  was  better  able  to  admit  the  likelihood  of  that 
repentance  because  Mr.  Gorst  had  never  stood  in  any 
close  relation  to  her.  His  iniquity  had  not  profoundly 
affected  her.  But  she  found  it  impossible  to  realise  that 
Majendie's  influence  could  count  for  anything  in  his  re- 
demption. Where  her  husband  was  concerned  Anne's 
mind  was  made  up,  and  it  refused  to  acknowledge  so  fine 
a  merit  in  so  gross  a  man.  She  was  by  this  time  com- 


254  The  Helpmate 

fortably  fixed  in  her  attitude,  and  any  shock  to  it  caused 
her  positive  uneasiness.  Her  attitude  was  sacred ;  it  had 
become  one  of  the  pillars  of  her  spiritual  life.  She  was 
constrained  to  look  for  justification  lest  she  should  put 
herself  wrong  with  God. 

She  considered  that  she  had  found  it  in  Majendie's 
habits,  his  silences,  his  moods,  the  facility  of  his  decline 
upon  the  Hannays  and  the  Ransomes.  He  was  deter- 
mined to  deteriorate,  to  sink  to  their  level. 

To-night,  when  he  remarked  tentatively  that  he 
thought  he  would  dine  at  the  Hannays',  she  made  an 
effort  to  stop  him. 

"Must  you  go?"  said  she.  "You  are  always  dining 
with  them." 

"Why? — do  you  mind?"  said  he. 
,     "Well— when  it's  night  after  night " 

"Is  it  that  you  mind  my  dining  with  the  Hannays,  or 
my  leaving  you?" 

"I  mind  both." 

"Oh — if  I'd  thought  you  wanted  me  to  stay " 

She  made  no  answer,  but  rose  and  led  the  way  to  the 
dining-room. 

He  followed.  Her  arm  had  touched  him  as  she  passed 
him  in  the  doorway,  and  his  heart  beat  thickly,  as  he 
realised  the  strength  of  her  dominion  over  him.  She  had 
only  to  say  "Stay,"  and  he  stayed;  or  "Come,"  and  she 
could  always  draw  him  to  her.  He  had  never  turned 
away.  His  very  mind  was  faithful  to  her.  It  had  not 
even  conceived,  and  it  would  have  had  difficulty  in 
grasping,  the  idea  of  happiness  without  her. 

To-night  he  was  profoundly  moved  by  this  intimation 
of  his  wife's  desire  to  have  him  with  her.  His  surprise 
and  satisfaction  made  him  curiously  shy.  He  sat  through 


The  Helpmate  255 

two  courses  without  speaking,  without  lifting  his  eyes 
from  his  plate;  brooding  over  their  separation.  He  was 
wondering  whether,  after  all,  it  had  been  so  inevitable ; 
whether  he  had  misunderstood  her;  whether,  if  he  had 
had  the  sense  to  understand,  he  might  not  have  kept  her. 
It  was  possible  she  had  been  wounded  by  his  absences. 
He  had  never  explained  them.  He  could  not  tell  her  that 
she  had  made  him  afraid  to  be  alone  with  her. 

The  situation,  which  he  had  accepted  so  obediently, 
had  been  more  than  a  mere  mortal  man  could  endure. 
Especially  in  the  terrible  five  minutes  after  dinner,  be- 
fore they  settled  for  the  evening,  when  each  sat  waiting 
to  see  if  the  other  had  anything  to  say.  Sometimes 
Majendie  would  take  up  his  book  and  Anne  her  work. 
She  would  sew,  and  sew,  patient,  persistent,  in  her  tragic 
silence.  And  when  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  he  would 
put  down  his  book  and  go  quietly  away,  to  relieve  the 
intolerable  constraint  that  held  her.  Sometimes  it  was 
Anne  who  read,  while  he  smoked  and  brooded.  Then,  in 
the  warm,  consenting  stillness  of  the  summer  evenings 
(they  were  now  in  June),  her  presence  seemed  to  fill  the 
room ;  he  was  possessed  by  the  sense  of  it ;  by  the  sound 
of  her  breathing ;  by  the  stirring  of  her  body  in  the  chair, 
or  of  her  fingers  on  the  pages  of  her  book ;  and  he  would 
get  up  suddenly  and  leave  her,  dragging  his  passion  from 
the  sight  of  her. 

As  he  considered  these  things,  many  perplexities,  many 
tendernesses,  stirred  in  him  and  kept  him  still. 

Anne  watched  him  from  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
and  her  thoughts  debased  him.  He  seemed  to  her  dis- 
agreeably incommunicative,  and  she  had  found  an  igno- 
ble explanation  of  his  mood.  There  had  been  too  much 
salt  in  the  soup,  and  now  there  was  something  wrong 


256  The  Helpmate 

with  the  salmon.  He  had  not  responded  to  her  apology 
for  these  accidents,  and  she  supposed  that  they  had  been 
enough  to  spoil  his  evening  with  her. 

She  had  come  to  consider  him  a  creature  grossly 
wedded  to  material  things. 

"It's  a  pity  you  stayed,"  said  she.  "Mrs.  Hannay 
would  have  given  you  a  better  dinner." 

He  had  nothing  to  say  to  so  preposterous  a  charge. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  more  than  ever  on  his  plate.  She 
saw  his  face  flush  as  he  bowed  his  head  in  eating;  she 
allowed  her  fancy  to  rest  in  its  morbid  abhorrence  of 
the  act,  and  in  its  suspicion  of  its  grossness.  She  went 
on,  lashed  by  her  fancy.  "I  cannot  understand  your  lik- 
ing to  go  there  so  much,  when  you  might  go  to  the  Eliotts 
or  the  Gardners.  They're  always  asking  you,  and  you 
haven't  been  near  them  for  a  year." 

"Well,  you  see,  the  Hannays  let  me  do  what  I  like. 
They  don't  bother  me." 

"Do  the  Eliotts  bother  you  ?" 

"They  bore  me.    Horribly." 

"And  the  Gardners?" 

"Sometimes— a  little." 

"And  Canon  Wharton?    No.    I  needn't  ask." 

He  laughed.  "You  needn't.  He  bores  me  to  extinc- 
tion." 

"I'm  sorry  it  is  my  friends  who  are  so  unfortunate." 

"It's  your  husband  who's  unfortunate.  He  is  not  an 
intellectual  person.  Nor  a  spiritual  one,  either,  I'm 
afraid." 

He  looked  up.  Anne  had  finished  her  morsel,  and 
her  fingers  played  irritably  with  the  hand-bell  at  her  side. 
Poor  Majendie's  abstraction  had  combined  with  his  appe- 
tite to  make  him  deplorably  slow  over  his  dinner.  She 


The  Helpmate  257 

still  sat  watching  him,  pure  from  appetite,  in  resignation 
that  veiled  her  contempt  of  the  male  hunger  so  incom- 
prehensibly prolonged.  He  had  come  to  dread  more  than 
anything  those  attentive,  sacrificial  eyes. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  "to  keep  you  waiting." 

She  rang  the  bell.  "Will  you  have  the  lamp  lit  in  the 
drawing-room  or  the  study?" 

He  looked  at  her.  There  was  no  lamp  for  him  in  her 
eyes. 

"Whichever  you  like.  I  think  I  shall  go  over  to  the 
Hannays',  after  all." 

He  went;  and  by  the  lamp  in  the  drawing-room  Anne 
sat  and  brooded  in  her  turn. 

She  said  to  herself :  "It's  no  use  my  trying  to  keep  him 
from  them.  It  only  irritates  him.  He  lets  me  see  plainly 
that  he  prefers  their  society  to  mine.  I  don't  wonder. 
They  can  flatter  him  and  kow-tow  to  him,  and  I  cannot. 
He  can  be  a  little  god  to  them ;  and  he  must  know  what 
he  is  to  me.  We  haven't  a  thought  in  common — not  a 
feeling — and  he  cannot  bear  to  feel  himself  inferior.  As 
for  me — if  I've  married  beneath  me,  I  must  pay  the 
penalty." 

But  there  was  no  penalty  for  her  in  these  reflections. 
They  satisfied  her.  They  were  part  of  the  curious  mental 
process  by  which  she  justified  herself. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

UP  to  that  moment  when  he  had  looked  across  the 
dinner  table  at  Anne,  Majendie  had  felt  secure  in 
the  bonds  of  his  marriage.  Anne's  repugnance  had 
broken  the  natural  tie;  but  up  to  that  moment  he  had 
never  doubted  that  the  immaterial  link  still  held.  If  at 
times  her  presence  was  a  bodily  torment,  at  other  times 
he  felt  it  as  a  spiritual  protection.  His  immense  charity 
made  allowance  for  all  the  extraordinary  attitudes  of 
Anne.  In  his  imagination  they  reduced  themselves  to 
one,  the  attitude  of  inscrutable  physical  repugnance.  He 
had  accepted  (as  he  had  told  himself  so  often)  the  sit- 
uation she  had  created.  It  appeared  to  him,  of  all 
situations,  the  crudest  and  most  simple.  It  had  its  merci- 
ful limits.  The  discomfort  of  it,  once  vague,  had  grown, 
to  his  thwarted  senses,  almost  brutally  defined.  He  could 
at  least  say,  "It  was  here  the  trouble  began,  and  here, 
therefore,  it  shall  end." 

He  thought  he  had  sounded  the  depths  of  her  repug- 
nance, and  could  measure  by  it  his  own  misery.  He  said, 
"At  any  rate  I  know  where  I  am" ;  and  he  believed  that 
if  he  stayed  where  he  was,  if  he  respected  his  wife's 
prejudices,  her  prejudices  would  be  bound  to  respect 
him.  He  could  not  make  her  love  him,  but  at  least 
he  considered  that  he  had  justified  his  claim  to  her 
respect. 

And  now  she  had  opened  his  eyes,  and  he  had  looked 
at  her,  and  seen  things  that  had  not  (till  that  moment) 

258 


The  Helpmate  259 

come  into  his  vision  of  their  separation.  He  saw  subtler 
hostilities,  incurable,  indestructible  repugnances,  atti- 
tudes at  which  his  charity  stood  aghast.  The  situation 
(so  far  from  being  crude  and  simple)  involved  endless 
refinements  and  complexities  of  torture.  He  despaired 
now  of  ever  reaching  her. 

Majendie  had  caught  his  first  clear  sight  of  the  spirit- 
ual ramparts. 

"I'm  not  good  enough  for  her,"  he  said.  She  had  kept 
him  with  her  that  evening,  not  because  she  wanted  him 
to  stay,  but  because  she  wanted  him  to  understand. 

He  had  shown  her  that  he  understood  by  going  to  the 
friends  for  whom  he  was  good  enough,  who  were  good 
enough  for  him. 

He  went  more  than  ever  now,  sometimes  to  the  Ran- 
somes,  oftener  to  Gorst,  oftenest  of  all  to  Lawson 
Hannay.  He  liked  more  than  ever  to  sit  with  Mrs. 
Hannay;  to  lean  up  against  the  everlasting  soft  cushion 
she  presented  to  his  soreness.  More  than  ever  he  liked 
to  talk  to  her  of  simple  things ;  of  their  acquaintance ; 
of  Edith,  who  had  been  a  little  better,  certainly  no  worse, 
this  summer ;  of  Peggy,  of  Peggy's  future  and  her  educa- 
tion. He  would  sit  for  hours  on  Mrs.  Hannay's  sofa, 
his  body  leaning  back,  his  head  bowed  forward,  his  chin 
sunk  on  his  breast,  listening  attentively,  yet  with  a  dazed 
and  rather  stupid  expression,  to  Mrs.  Hannay's  conversa- 
tion. His  own  was  sometimes  monotonous  and  a  little 
dull.  He  was  growing  even  physically  heavy.  But  Mrs. 
Hannay  did  not  seem  to  mind. 

There  was  a  certain  justice  in  Anne's  justification.  He 
didn't  consciously  prefer  the  Hannays'  society  to  hers; 
but  he  actually  found  it  more  agreeable,  and  for  the 
reasons  she  suspected.  They  did  worship  him ;  and  their 


260  The  Helpmate 

worship  did  make  him  feel  superior,  perhaps  when  he 
was  least  so.  They  did  flatter  him ;  for,  as  Mrs.  Hannay 
said,  "He  needed  a  little  patting  on  the  back,  now  and 
then,  poor  fellow."  And  perhaps  he  was  really  sinking 
a  little  to  her  level;  he  had  so  lost  his  sense  of  her  vul- 
garity. 

He  used  to  wonder  how  it  was  that  she  had  kept  Law- 
son  straight.  Perfectly  straight,  Lawson  had  been,  ever 
since  his  marriage.  Possibly,  probably,  if  he  had  mar- 
ried a  wife  too  inflexibly  refined,  he  would  have  deviated 
somewhat  from  that  perfect  straightness.  His  tastes  had 
always  been  a  little  vulgar.  But  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  go  abroad  to  gratify  them  when  he  pos- 
sessed the  paragon  of  amenable  vulgarity  at  home.  The 
Gardners,  whose  union  was  almost  miraculously  com- 
plete, were  not  in  their  way  more  admirably  mated.  And 
Lawson's  reform  must  have  been  a  stiff  job  for  any 
woman  to  tackle  at  the  start. 

A  woman  of  marvellous  ingenuity  and  tact.  For  she 
had  kept  Lawson  straight  without  his  knowing  it.  She 
had  played  off  one  of  Lawson's  little  weaknesses  against 
the  other ;  had  set,  for  instance,  his  fantastic  love  of  eat- 
ing against  his  sordid  little  tendency  to  drink.  Lawson 
was  now  a  model  of  sobriety. 

And  as  she  kept  Lawson  straight  without  his  knowing 
it,  she  helped  Majendie,  too,  without  his  knowing  it,  to 
hold  his  miserable  head  up.  She  ignored,  resolutely,  his 
attitude  of  dejection.  She  reminded  him  that  if  he  could 
make  nothing  else  out  of  his  life  he  could  make  money. 
She  convinced  him  that  life,  the  life  of  a  prosperous  ship- 
owner in  Scale,  was  worth  living,  as  long  as  he  had  Edith 
and  Anne  and  Peggy  to  make  money  for,  especially 
Peggy. 


The  Helpmate  261 

And  Majendie  became  more  and  more  absorbed  in  his 
business,  and  more  and  more  he  found  his  pleasure  in  it ; 
in  making  money,  that  is  to  say,  for  the  persons  whom  he 
loved. 

He  had  come  even  to  find  pleasure  in  making  it  for  a 
person  whom  he  did  not  love,  and  hardly  knew.  He  pro- 
vided himself  with  one  punctual  and  agreeable  sensation 
every  week  when  he  sent  off  the  cheque  for  the  small  sum 
that  was  poor  Maggie's  allowance.  Once  a  week  (he 
had  settled  it),  not  once  a  month.  For  Maggie  might 
(for  anything  he  knew)  be  thriftless.  She  might  feast  for 
three  days,  and  then  starve ;  and  so  find  her  sad  way  to 
the  street. 

But  Maggie  was  not  thriftless.  First  at  irregular  in- 
tervals, weeks  it  might  be,  or  months,  she  had  sent  him 
various  diminutive  sums  towards  the  payment  of  her 
debt.  Maggie  was  strictly  honourable.  She  had  got  a 
little  work,  she  said,  and  hoped  soon  to  have  it  regularly. 
And  soon  she  began  to  return  to  him,  weekly,  the  half 
of  her  allowance.  These  sums  he  put  by  for  her,  adding 
the  interest.  Some  day  there  would  be  a  modest  hoard  for 
Maggie.  He  pleased  himself,  now  and  then,  by  wonder- 
ing what  the  girl  would  do  with  it.  Buy  a  wedding-gown 
perhaps,  when  she  married  Mr.  Mumford.  Time,  he  felt, 
was  Mr.  Mumford's  best  ally.  In  time,  when  she  had 
forgotten  Gorst,  Maggie  would  marry  him. 

Maggie's  small  business  entailed  a  correspondence  out 
of  all  proportion  to  it.  He  had  not  yet  gone  to  see  her. 
Some  day,  he  supposed,  he  would  have  to  go,  to  see 
whether  the  girl,  as  he  phrased  it  vaguely,  was  "really 
all  right."  With  little  creatures  like  Maggie  you  never 
could  be  sure.  There  would  always  be  the  possibility  of 
Gorst's  successor,  and  he  had  no  desire  to  make  Maggie's 


262  The  Helpmate 

maintenance  easier  for  him.  He  had  made  her  indepen- 
dent of  all  iniquitous  sources  of  revenue. 

At  last,  suddenly,  the  postal  orders  and  the  letters 
ceased;  for  three  weeks,  four,  fire  weeks.  Then  Majen- 
die  began  to  feel  uneasy.  He  would  have  to  look  her  up. 

Then  one  morning,  early  in  September,  a  letter  was 
brought  to  him  at  the  office  -(Maggie's  letters  were  al- 
ways addressed  to  the  office,  never  to  his  house).  There 
was  no  postal  order  with  it.  For  three  weeks  Maggie 
had  been  ill,  then  she  had  been  very  poorly,  very  weak, 
too  weak  to  sit  long  at  work.  And  so  she  had  lost  what 
work  she  had;  but  she  hoped  to  get  more  when  she  was 
strong  again.  When  she  was  strong  the  repayments 
would  begin  again,  said  Maggie.  She  hoped  Mr.  Majen- 
die  would  forgive  her  for  not  having  sent  any  for  so  long. 
She  was  very  sorry.  But,  if  it  wasn't  too  much  to  ask, 
she  would  be  very  glad  if  Mr.  Majendie  would  come 
some  day  and  see  her. 

He  sent  her  an  extra  remittance  by  the  bearer,  and 
went  to  see  her  the  next  day.  His  conscience  reproached 
him  for  not  having  gone  before. 

Mrs.  Morse,  the  landlady,  received  him  with  many 
appearances  of  relief.  In  her  mind  he  was  evidently  re- 
sponsible for  Maggie.  He  was  the  guardian,  the  bene- 
factor, the  sender  of  rent. 

"She's  been  very  ill,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Morse;  "but  she 
wouldn't  'ave  you  written  to  till  she  was  better." 

"Why  not?" 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  say,  sir,  wot  'er  feeling  was." 

It  struck  him  as  strange  and  pathetic  that  Maggie 
could  have  a  feeling.  He  was  soon  to  know  that  she  had 
little  else. 

He  found  her  sitting  by  a  fire,  wrapped  in  a  shawl. 


The  Helpmate  263 

It  slipped  from  her  as  she  rose,  as  she  leaped,  rather, 
from  her  seat  like  one  unnerved  by  a  sudden  shock.  He 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  shawl  before  he  spoke,  that  he 
might  give  the  poor  thing  time  to  recover  herself. 

"Did  I  startle  you?"  he  said. 

Maggie  was  still  breathing  hard.  "I  didn't  think  you'd 
come." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  weakly,  and  sat  down  again. 
Maggie  was  very  weak.  She  was  not  like  the  Maggie 
he  remembered,  the  creature  of  brilliant  flesh  and  blood. 
Maggie's  flesh  was  worn  and  limp ;  it  had  a  greenish  tint ; 
her  blood  no  longer  flowed  in  the  cream  rose  of  her 
face.  She  had  parted  with  the  sources  of  her  radiant 
youth. 

She  seemed  to  him  to  be  suffering  from  severe  anaemia. 
A  horrible  thought  came  to  him.  Had  the  little  thing 
been  starving  herself  to  save  enough  to  repay 
him? 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself,  Maggie?"  he 
said  brusquely. 

Maggie  looked  frightened.    "Nothing,"  she  said. 

"Working  your  fingers  to  the  bone?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  was  no  good  at  dressmaking. 
They  wouldn't  have  me." 

"Well "  he  said  kindly. 

"There  are  a  great  many  things  I  can  do.  I  can  make 
wreaths  and  crosses  and  bookays.  I  made  them  at 
Evans's.  I  could  go  back  there.  Mr.  Evans  would  have 
me.  But  Mrs.  Evans  wouldn't."  She  paused,  surveying 
her  immense  resources.  "Or  I  could  do  the  flowers  for 
people's  parties.  I  used  to.  Do  you  think — perhaps — 
they'd  have  me  ?" 


264  The  Helpmate 

Maggie's  pitiful  doubt  was  always  whether  "they" 
would  "have"  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  pathos,  "perhaps  they 
would." 

"Or  I  could  do  embroidery.  I  learned,  years  ago,  at 
Madame  Ponting's.  I  could  go  back.  Only  Madame 
wouldn't  have  me."  (Maggie  was  palpably  foolish;  but 
her  folly  was  adorable.) 

"Why  wouldn't  she  have  you?" 

Maggie  reddened,  and  he  forbore  to  press  the  unkind 
inquiry.  He  gathered  that  Maggie's  ways  had  been  not 
unknown  to  Madame  Ponting,  "years  ago." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  some  of  my  embroidery?" 

He  assented  gravely.  He  did  not  want  to  turn  Maggie 
from  the  path  of  industry,  which  was  to  her  the  path  of 
virtue. 

She  went  to  a  cupboard,  and  returned  with  her  arms 
full  of  little  rolls  and  parcels  wrapped  in  paper.  She  un- 
folded and  spread  on  the  table  various  squares,  and  strips, 
and  little  pieces,  silk  and  woollen  stuffs,  and  canvas,  ex- 
quisitely embroidered.  There  were  flowers  in  most  of 
the  patterns — flowers,  as  it  appeared,  of  Maggie's  fancy. 

"I  say,  did  you  do  all  that  yourself,  Maggie  ?" 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  can  do.  I  make  the  patterns  out 
of  me  head,  and  they're  mostly  flowers,  because  I  love 
'em.  It's  pretty,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Maggie,  stroking  tenderly 
a  pattern  of  pansies,  blue  pansies,  such  as  she  had  never 
sold  in  Evans's  shop. 

"Very  pretty — very  beautiful." 

"I've  sold  lots — to  a  lady,  before  I  was  ill.  See 
here." 

Maggie  unfolded  something  that  was  pinned  in  silver 
paper  with  a  peculiar  care.  It  was  a  small  garment,  in 


The  Helpmate  265 

some  faint-coloured  silk,  embroidered  with  blue  pansies 
(always  blue  pansies). 

"That's  a  frock,"  said  she,  "for  a  little  girl.  You've 
got  a  little  girl — a  little  fair  girl." 

He  reddened.  How  the  devil,  he  wondered,  does  she 
know  that  I  have  a  little  fair  girl?  "I  don't  think  it 
would  fit  her,"  he  said. 

Maggie  reddened  now. 

"Oh — I  don't  want  you  to  buy  it.  I  don't  want  you 
to  buy  anything.  Only  to  tell  people." 

So  much  he  promised  her.  He  tried  to  think  of  all  the 
people  he  could  tell.  Mrs.  Hannay,  Mrs.  Ransome,  Mrs. 
Gardner — no,  Mrs.  Gardner  was  Anne's  friend.  If  Anne 
had  been  different  he  could  have  told  Anne.  He  could 
have  told  her  everything.  As  it  was — No. 

He  rose  to  go,  but,  instead  of  going,  he  stayed  and 
bought  several  pieces  of  embroidery  for  Mrs.  Hannay, 
and  the  frock,  not  for  Peggy,  but  for  Mrs.  Ransome's 
little  girl.  They  haggled  a  good  deal  over  the  price,  ow- 
ing to  Maggie's  obstinate  attempts  to  ruin  her  own  mar- 
ket. (She  must  always  have  been  bent  on  ruining  her- 
self, poor  child.)  Then  he  tried  to  go  again,  and  Mrs. 
Morse  came  in  with  the  tea-tray,  and  Maggie  insisted  on 
making  him  a  cup  of  tea,  and  of  course  he  had  to  stay 
and  drink  it. 

Maggie  revived  over  her  tea-tray.  Her  face  flushed 
and  rounded  again  to  an  orb  of  jubilant  content.  And  he 
asked  her  if  she  were  happy.  If  she  liked  her  work. 

She  hesitated.  "It's  this  way,"  she  said.  "Sometimes 
I  can't  think  of  anything  else.  I  can  sit  and  sit  at  it  for 
weeks  on  end.  I  don't  want  anything  else.  Then,  all  of 
a  sudden,  something  comes  over  me,  and  I  can't  put  in 
another  stitch.  Sometimes — when  it  comes — I'm  that 


266  The  Helpmate 

tired,  it's  as  if  I  'ad  weights  on  me  arms,  and  I  couldn't 
'old  them  up  to  sew.  And  sometimes,  again,  I'm  that 
restless,  it's  as  if  you'd  lit  a  fire  under  me  feet.  I'm 
frightened,"  said  Maggie,  "when  I  feel  it  coming.  But 
I'm  only  tired  now." 

She  broke  off;  but  by  the  expression  of  her  face,  he 
saw  that  her  thoughts  ran  underground.  He  wondered 
where  they  would  come  out  again. 

"I  haven't  seen  anybody  this  time,"  said  Maggie,  "for 
six  months." 

"Not  even  Mr.  Mumford  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  him.  I  don't  want  to  see  him."  And  her 
thoughts  ran  back  to  where  they  started  from. 

"It  hasn't  come  lately,"  said  Maggie,  "it  hasn't  come 
for  quite  a  long  time." 

"What  hasn't  come?" 

"What  I've  been  telling  you — what  I'm  afraid  of." 

"It  won't  come,  Maggie,"  he  said  quickly.  (He  might 
have  been  her  father  or  the  doctor.) 

"If  it  does,  it'll  be  worse  now." 

"Why  should  it  be?" 

"Because  I  can't  get  away  from  it.  I've  nowhere  to 
go  to.  Other  girls  have  got  their  friends.  I've  got  no- 
body. Why,  Mr.  Majendie — think — there  isn't  a  place 
in  this  whole  town  where  I  can  go  to  for  a  cup  of  tea." 

"You'll  make  friends." 

She  shook  her  head,  guarding  her  little  air  of  tragic 
wisdom. 

Mrs.  Morse  popped  her  head  in  at  the  door,  and  out 
again. 

"Is  that  woman  kind  to  you?" 

"Yes,  very  kind." 

"She  looks  after  you  well?" 


The  Helpmate  267 

"Looks  after  me?    I  don't  want  looking  after." 

"Takes  care  of  you,  I  mean.  Gives  you  plenty  of  nice 
nourishing  things  to  eat?" 

"Yes,  plenty  of  nice  things.  And  she  comes  and  sits 
with  me  sometimes." 

"You  like  her?" 

"I  love  her." 

"That's  all  right.  You  see,  you  have  got  a  friend,  af- 
ter all." 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie  mournfully;  and  he  saw  that  her 
thoughts  were  with  Gorst.  "But  it  isn't  the  same  thing, 
is  it?" 

Majendie  could  not  honestly  say  it  was;  so  he  smiled, 
instead. 

"It's  a  shame,"  said  she,  "to  go  on  like  this  when 
you've  been  so  good  to  me." 

"If  I  wasn't,  you  couldn't  do  it,  could  you?  But  what 
you  want  me  to  understand  is  that,  however  good  I've 
been,  I  haven't  made  things  more  amusing  for  you." 

"No,  no,"  said  Maggie  vehemently,  "I  didn't  mean 
that.  Indeed  I  didn't.  I  only  wanted  you  to  know " 

"How  good  3'0tt've  been.  Is  that  it?  Well,  because 
you're  good,  there's  no  reason  why  you  should  be  dull. 
Is  there?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie  simply. 

"See  here,  supposing  that,  instead  of  sending  me  all 
you  earn,  you  keep  some  of  it  to  play  with?  Get  Mrs. 
What's-her-name  to  go  with  you  to  places." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  places,"  she  said.  "I  want  to 
send  it  all  to  you." 

He  lapsed  again  into  his  formula.  "There  really  is 
no  reason  why  you  should." 

"I  want  to.    That's  a  reason,  isn't  it?"  said  she.    She 


268  The  Helpmate 

said  it  shyly,  tentatively,  solemnly  almost,  as  if  it  were 
some  point  in  an  infant's  metaphysics.  There  was  no 
assurance  in  her  tone,  nothing  to  remind  him  that  Maggie 
had  been  the  spoiled  child  of  pleasure  whose  wants  were 
always  reasons ;  nothing  to  suggest  the  perverted  con- 
sciousness of  power. 

"Well "  He  straightened  himself  stiffly  for  de- 
parture. 

"Are  you  going?"  she  said. 

"I  must." 

"Will  you — come  again?" 

"Yes,  I'll  come,  if  you  want  me." 

He  saw  again  how  piteous,  how  ill  she  looked.  A  pang 
of  compassion  went  through  him.  And  after  the  pang 
there  came  a  warm,  delicious  tremor.  It  recalled  the 
feeling  he  used  to  have  when  he  did  things  for  Edith,  a 
sensation  singularly  sweet  and  singularly  pure. 

It  was  consolation  in  his  misery  to  realise  that  any  one 
could  want  him,  even  poor,  perverted  Maggie. 

Maggie  said  nothing.     But  the  flame  rose  in  her  face. 

Downstairs  Majendie  found  Mrs.  Morse  waiting  for 
him  at  the  door.  "What's  been  the  matter  with  her?" 
he  asked. 

"I  don't  rightly  know,  sir.  But  between  you  and  me, 
I  think  she's  fretted  herself  ill." 

"Well,  you've  got  to  see  that  she  doesn't  fret,  that's 
all." 

He  gave  into  her  palm  an  earnest  of  the  reward  of 
vigilance. 

That  night  he  sent  off  the  embroidered  pieces  to  Mrs. 
Hannay,  and  the  embroidered  frock  to  Mrs.  Ransome; 
with  a  note  to  each  lady  recommending  Maggie,  and 
Maggie's  beautiful  and  innocent  art. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A3  Majendie  declined  more  and  more  on  his  inferior 
friendships,  Anne  became  more  and  more  depend- 
ent on  the  Eliotts  and  the  Gardners.  Her  evenings  would 
have  been  intolerable  without  them.  Edith  no  longer 
needed  her.  Edith,  they  still  said,  was  growing  better,  or 
certainly  no  worse ;  and  Mr.  Gorst  spent  his  evenings  in 
Prior  Street  with  Edie.  The  prodigal  had  made  his 
peace  with  Anne,  and  came  and  went  unquestioned.  He 
was  bent  on  making  up  for  his  long  loss  of  Edie,  and  for 
the  still  longer  loss  of  her  that  had  to  be.  They  felt  that 
his  brilliant  presence  kept  the  invading  darkness  from  her 
door. 

Autumn  passed,  and  winter  and  spring,  and  in  sum- 
mer Edith  was  still  with  them. 

Anne  was  no  longer  a  stranger  in  her  husband's  house 
since  her  child  had  been  born  in  it ;  but  in  the  long  light 
evenings,  after  Peggy  had  been  put  to  bed  at  six  o'clock, 
Peggy's  mother  was  once  more  alien  and  alone.  It  was 
then  that  she  would  get  up  and  leave  her  husband  (why 
not,  since  he  left  her?)  and  slip  from  Prior  Street 
to  Thurston  Square;  then  that  she  moved  once  more 
superbly  in  her  superior  circle.  She  was  proud  of 
her  circle.  It  was  so  well  defined;  and  if  the  round 
was  small,  that  only  meant  that  there  was  no  room 
in  it  for  borderlands  and  other  obscure  and  unde- 
sirable places.  The  commercial  world,  so  terrifying  in 
its  approaches,  remained,  and  always  would  remain, 

269 


270  The  Helpmate 

outside  it.  Sitting  in  Mrs.  Eliott's  drawing-room  she 
forgot  that  the  soul  of  Scale  on  Humber  was  given  over 
to  tallow,  and  to  timber,  and  Dutch  cheeses.  But  for 
her  constant  habit  of  depreciation,  she  could  almost  have 
forgotten  that  her  husband  was  only  a  ship-owner,  and 
a  ship-owner  who  had  gone  into  a  horrible  partnership 
with  Lawson  Hannay.  It  appeased  her  to  belittle  him  by 
comparisons.  He  had  no  spiritual  fineness  and  fire  like 
Canon  Wharton,  no  intellectual  interests  like  Mr.  Eliott 
and  Dr.  Gardner.  She  had  long  ago  noticed  his  inability 
to  converse  with  any  brilliance;  she  was  now  aware  of 
the  heaviness,  the  physical  slowness,  that  was  growing  on 
him.  He  was  losing  the  personal  distinction  that  had 
charmed  her  once,  and  made  her  proud  to  be  seen  with 
him  at  gatherings  of  the  fastidious  in  Thurston  Square. 

Her  fancy,  still  belittling  him,  ranked  him  now  with 
the  dull  business  men  of  Scale.  In  a  few  years,  she  said, 
he  will  be  like  Lawson  Hannay. 

A  change  was  coming  over  her.  She  was  no  longer 
apathetic.  Now  that  she  saw  less  of  her  husband  she 
thought  more  frequently  of  him,  if  only  to  his  disparage- 
ment. At  times  the  process  was  unconscious ;  at  times, 
when  she  caught  her  thoughts  dealing  thus  uncharitably 
with  him,  she  was  touched  by  a  pang  of  contrition  and  of 
shame.  At  times  she  was  pulled  up  in  her  thinking  with 
a  sudden  shock.  She  said  to  herself  that  he  used  to  be 
so  different,  and  her  heart  would  turn  gently  to  the  man 
he  used  to  be.  Then,  as  in  the  sad  days  of  her  bridal 
home-coming,  the  dear  immortal  memory  of  him  rose  up 
before  her,  and  pleaded  mercy  for  the  insufferably  mortal 
man.  She  saw  him,  with  the  body  and  the  soul  that  had 
been  once  so  familiar  to  her,  slender,  alert,  and  strong,  a 
creature  of  appealing  goodness  and  tenderness  and 


The  Helpmate  271 

charm.  And  she  was  troubled  with  a  great  longing  for 
the  presence  of  the  thing  she  had  so  loved.  She  yearned 
even  for  signs  of  the  old  brilliant,  startling  personality, 
in  face  of  the  growing  dulness  that  she  saw.  She 
found  herself  recalling  with  a  smile  sayings  of  his  that 
had  once  vexed  and  now  amused  her.  For  Anne  was 
softer. 

At  times  she  was  aware  of  a  new  source  of  uneasiness. 
She  was  accustomed  to  judge  all  things  in  relation  to  the 
spiritual  life.  She  had  no  other  measure  of  their  excel- 
lence. She  had  found  profit  for  her  soul  in  its  divorce 
from  her  husband.  She  had  persuaded  herself  that  since 
she  could  not  raise  him,  she  herself  would  have  sunk  if 
she  had  clung  to  him  or  let  him  cling.  She  had  felt  that 
their  tragic  rupture  strengthened  the  tie  between  her  soul 
and  God.  But  more  than  once  lately,  she  had  expe- 
rienced difficulty  in  reaching  her  refuge,  her  place  of 
peace.  Something  threatened  her  former  inviolable  se- 
curity. The  ramparts  of  the  spiritual  life  were  shaken. 
Her  prayers,  that  were  once  an  ascension  of  flamed 
and  winged  powers  carrying  her  to  heaven,  had  become 
mere  clamorous  petitions,  drawing  down  the  things  of 
heaven  to  earth.  Night  and  morning  the  same  passion- 
ate prayer  for  herself  and  her  child,  the  same  prayer  for 
her  husband,  painful  and  perfunctory;  but  not  always 
now  the  same  sense  of  absolution,  of  supreme  and  inti- 
mate communion.  It  was  as  if  a  veil,  opaque  but  intangi- 
ble, were  drawn  between  her  spirit  and  the  Unseen.  She 
thought  it  had  come  of  living  in  perpetual  contact  with 
Walter's  deterioration. 

Yet  Anne  was  softer. 

Her  love  for  Peggy  had  become  more  and  more  an 
engrossing  passion,  as  Majendie  left  her  more  and  more 


272  The  Helpmate 

to  the  dominion  of  her  motherhood.  He  had  seen  enough 
of  the  effect  of  rivalry.  It  was  Anne's  pleasure  to  take 
Peggy  from  her  nurse  and  wash  her  and  dress  her,  to 
tend  her  fine  limbs,  and  comb  her  pale  soft  hair.  It  was 
as  if  her  care  for  the  little  tender  body  had  taught  her 
patience  and  gentleness  towards  flesh  and  blood;  as  if, 
through  the  love  it  invoked,  some  veil  was  torn  for  her, 
and  she  saw,  wrought  in  the  body  of  her  child,  the  won- 
der of  the  spirit's  fellowship  with  earth. 

She  dreaded  the  passing  of  the  seasons,  as  they  would 
take  with  them  each  some  heart-rending  charm  of 
Peggy's  infancy.  Now  it  would  be  the  ceasing  of  her 
pretty,  helpless  cry,  as  Peggy  acquired  mastery  over 
things ;  now  the  repudiation  of  her  delicious  play,  as 
Peggy's  intellect  perceived  its  puerility;  and  now  the 
leaving  off  for  ever  of  the  speech  that  was  Peggy's  own, 
as  Peggy  adopted  the  superstition  of  the  English  lan- 
guage. A  few  years  and  Peggy  would  have  cast 
off  pinafores,  a  very  few  more,  and  Peggy  would  be  at 
a  boarding-school ;  and  before  she  left  it  she  would  have 
her  hair  up.  There  was  a  pang  for  Peggy's  mother  in 
looking  backward,  and  in  looking  forward  pang  upon 
intolerable  pang. 

But  Peggy  was  in  no  hurry  to  grow  up.  Her  delicacy 
prolonged  her  babyhood  and  its  sweet  impunity.  The  sad 
state  of  Peggy's  little  body  accounted  for  all  the  little  sins 
that  weighed  on  Peggy's  mother's  soul.  You  couldn't 
punish  Peggy.  An  untender  look  made  her  tremble ;  at  a 
harsh  word  she  cried  till  she  was  sick.  When  Peggy 
committed  sin  she  ran  and  told  her  mother,  as  if  it  were 
some  wonderful  and  interesting  experience.  Anne  was 
afraid  that  she  would  never  teach  the  child  the  difference 
between  right  and  wrong. 


The  Helpmate  273 

In  this,  by  some  strange  irony,  Majendie,  for  all  his 
self-effacement,  proved  more  effectual  than  Anne. 

They  were  all  three  in  the  drawing-room  one  Sunday 
afternoon  at  tea-time.  It  was  Peggy's  hour.  And  in  that 
hour  she  had  found  her  moment,  when  her  parents'  backs 
were  turned  to  the  tea-table.  The  moment  over,  she 
came  to  Majendie,  shivering  with  delight. 

"Oh,  daddy,  daddy,"  she  cried,  "I  did  'teal  some  sugar. 
I  did  'teal  it  my  own  self,  and  eated  it  all  up." 

Peggy  had  been  forbidden  to  touch  the  sugar  basin 
ever  since  one  very  miserable  day. 

"Oh,  Peggy,  Peggy,"  said  her  mother,  "that  was  very 
naughty." 

"No,  mummy,  it  wasn't.    It  wasn't  naughty  't  all." 

She  pondered,  gravely  working  out  her  case.  "I'd  be 
sorry  if  it  was  naughty." 

Majendie  laughed. 

"If  you  laugh  every  time  she's  naughty,  how  am  I  to 
make  her  learn?" 

Majendie  held  out  his  hand.    "Come  here,  Peggy." 

Peggy  came  and  cuddled  against  him,  smiling  sidelong 
mischief  at  her  mother. 

"Look  here,  Peggy,  if  you  eat  too  much  sugar,  you'll 
be  ill ;  and  if  you're  ill,  mummy '11  be  unhappy.  See  ?" 

"I'm  sorry,  daddy." 

Peggy'5  mouth  shook;  she  turned,  and  hid  her  face 
against  his  breast. 

"There,  there,"  he  said,  petting  her.  "Look  at 
mummy;  she's  happy  now." 

Peggy's  face  peeped  out,  but  it  was  not  at  her  mother 
that  she  looked. 

"Are  you  happy,  daddy?" 

He  stooped,  and  kissed  her,  and  left  the  room. 


274  The  Helpmate 

And  then  Peggy  said,  "I'm  sorry,  mummy.  Why  did 
daddy  go  away?" 

"I  don't  know,  darling." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  come  back  again?" 

"Darling,  I  don't  know." 

"You'd  like  him  to  come  back,  wouldn't  you, 
mummy?" 

"Of  course,  Peggy." 

"Then  I'll  go  and  tell  him." 

She  trotted  downstairs  to  the  study,  and  came  back 
shaking  her  head  sadly. 

"Daddy  isn't  coming.    Naughty  daddy." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Peggy?" 

"Because  he  won't  come  when  you  want  him  to." 

"Perhaps  he's  busy." 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy  thoughtfully.  "I  fink  he's  busy." 
She  sat  very  quiet  on  a  footstool,  thinking.  "I  fink,"  she 
said  presently,  "I'd  better  go  and  tell  daddy  he  isn't 
naughty,  else  he'll  be  dreff'ly  unhappy." 

And  she  trotted  downstairs  and  up  again. 

"Daddy  sends  his  love,  mummy,  and  he  is  busy.  S'all 
I  take  your  love  to  him?" 

That  was  how  it  went  on,  now  Peggy  was  older.  That 
was  how  she  made  her  mother's  heart  ache. 

Anne  was  in  terror  for  the  time  when  Peggy  would  be- 
gin to  see.  For  that,  and  for  her  own  inability  to  teach 
her  the  stupendous  difference  between  right  and  wrong. 

But  one  day  Peggy  ran  to  her  mother,  crying  as  if  her 
heart  would  break. 

"Oh,  muvver,  muvver,  kiss  me,"  she  sobbed.  "I  did 
kick  daddy!  Kiss  me." 

She  flung  her  arms  round  Anne's  knees,  as  if  clinging 
for  protection  against  the  pursuing  vision  of  her  sin. 


The  Helpmate  275 

"Hush,  hush,  darling,"  said  Anne.  "Perhaps  daddy 
didn't  mind." 

But  Peggy  howled  in  agony.  "Y-y-yes,  he  did.  I 
hurted  him,  I  hurted  him.  He  minded  ever  so." 

"My  little  one,"  said  Anne,  "my  little  one !"  and  clung 
to  her  and  comforted  her. 

She  saw  that  Peggy's  little  mind  recognised  no  sin  ex- 
cept the  sin  against  love;  that  Peggy's  little  heart  could 
not  conceive  that  love  should  refuse  to  forgive  her  and 
kiss  her. 

And  Anne  did  not  refuse. 

Thus  her  terror  grew.  If  it  was  to  come  to  Peggy  that 
way,  her  knowledge  of  the  difference,  what  was  Peggy  to 
think  when  she  grew  older?  When  she  began  to  see? 

That  was  how  Anne  grew  soft. 

Her  very  body  was  changing  into  the  beauty  of  her 
motherhood.  The  sweetness  of  her  face,  arrested  in  its 
hour  of  blossom,  had  unfolded  and  flowered  again.  Her 
mouth  had  lost  its  sad  droop,  and  for  Peggy  there  came 
many  times  laughter,  and  many  times  that  lifting  of  the 
upper  lip,  the  gleam  of  the  white  teeth,  and  the  play 
of  the  little  amber  mole  that  Majendie  loved  and  Anne 
was  ashamed  of. 

She  had  become  for  her  child  that  which  she  had  been 
for  her  husband  in  her  strange,  immortal  moments  of 
surrender,  a  woman  warmed  and  transfigured  by  a  secret 
fire.  Her  new  beauty  remained,  like  a  brooding  charm, 
when  the  child  was  not  with  her. 

And  as  the  seasons,  passing,  made  her  more  and  more  a 
woman  dear  and  desirable,  Majendie's  passion  for  her 
became  almost  insane  through  its  frustration. 

Anne  was  aware  of  the  insanity  without  realising  its 
cause.  He  avoided  her  touch,  and  she  wondered  why. 


276  The  Helpmate 

Her  voice,  heard  in  another  room,  drew  his  heart  after 
her  in  longing.  At  the  worst  moments,  to  get  away  from 
her,  he  went  out  of  the  house.  And  she  wondered  where. 
Hours  of  stupefying  depression  were  followed  by  fits  of 
irritability  that  frightened  her.  And  then  she  wished  that 
he  would  not  go  to  the  Hannays,  and  eat  things  that 
disagreed  with  him. 

Little  Peggy  helped  to  make  his  misery  more  unen- 
durable. She  was  always  running  to  and  fro  between 
her  father  and  her  mother,  with  questions  concerning 
kisses  and  other  endearments,  till  he,  too,  wondered  what 
she  would  make  of  it  when  she  began  to  see.  Everything 
conspired  against  him.  Peggy's  formidable  innocence 
was  re-enforced  by  the  still  more  formidable  innocence  of 
her  mother.  Anne  positively  flaunted  before  him  the 
spectacle  of  her  maternal  passion.  She  showered  her 
tendernesses  on  the  child,  without  measuring  their  effect 
on  him,  for  whom  she  had  none.  She  did  not  allow  her- 
self to  wonder  how  he  felt,  when  he  sat  there  hungry, 
looking  on,  while  the  little  creature,  greedy  for  caresses, 
was  given  her  fill  of  love. 

And  when  he  was  tortured  by  headache,  she  brought 
him  an  effervescing  drink,  and  considered  that  she  had 
done  her  duty. 

A  worse  headache  than  usual  had  smitten  him  one  late 
Sunday  afternoon  in  August.  A  Sunday  afternoon  that 
made  (but  for  Majendie  and  his  headache)  a  little  sacred 
idyl,  so  golden  was  it,  so  holy  and  so  happy,  with  Peggy 
trotting  between  her  father's  and  mother's  knees,  and  the 
prodigal,  burning  with  penitence,  upstairs  in  Edie's  room, 
singing  Lead,  Kindly  Light,  in  a  heavenly  tenor. 

Peggy  tugged  at  Majendie's  coat. 

"Sing,  daddy,  sing!     Mummy,  make  daddy  sing." 


The  Helpmate  277 

"I  can't  make  him  sing,  darling,"  said  Anne,  who  was 
making  soft  eyes  at  Peggy,  and  curling  her  mouth  into 
the  shape  it  took  when  it  sent  kisses  to  her  across  the 
room. 

Instead  of  singing,  Majendie,  with  his  eyes  on  Anne, 
flung  his  arms  round  Peggy  and  lifted  her  up  and  cov- 
ered her  little  face  with  kisses.  The  child  lay  across  his 
knees  with  her  head  thrown  back  and  her  legs  struggling, 
and  laughed  for  terror  and  delight. 

Anne  spoke  with  some  austerity.  "Put  her  down, 
Walter;  I  don't  care  for  all  this  hugging  and  kissing.  It 
excites  the  child." 

Peggy  was  put  down.  But  when  bed-time  came  she 
achieved  an  inimitable  revenge.  Anne  had  to  pick  her 
up  from  the  floor  to  carry  her  to  bed.  At  first  Peggy 
refused  to  be  carried ;  then  she  surrendered  on  conditions 
that  brought  the  blood  to  her  mother's  face. 

From  her  mother's  arms  Peggy's  head  hung  down  as 
she  struggled  to  say  good-night  a  second  time  to  daddy. 
He  rose,  and  for  a  moment  he  and  Anne  stood  linked  to- 
gether by  the  body  of  their  child. 

And  Peggy  reiterated,  "I'll  be  a  good  girl,  mummy, 
if  you'll  kiss  daddy." 

Anne  raised  her  face  to  his  and  closed  her  eyes,  and 
Majendie  felt  her  soft  lips  touch  his  forehead  without 
parting. 

That  night,  when  he  refused  his  supper,  she  looked 
up  anxiously. 

"Are  you  not  well,  Walter?" 

"I've  got  a  splitting  headache." 

"You'd  better  take  some  anti-pyrine." 

"I'm  damned  if  I'll  take  any  anti-pyrine." 

"Well,  don't,  dear;  but  you  needn't  be  so  violent." 


278  The  Helpmate 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

He  cooled  his  hands  against  a  jug  of  iced  water,  and 
pressed  them  to  his  forehead. 

She  left  her  place  and  came  and  sat  beside  him. 
"Come,"  she  said  in  the  sweet  voice  that  pierced  him, 
"come  and  lie  down  in  the  study."  She  laid  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  and  he  rose  and  followed  her. 

She  made  him  lie  down  on  the  sofa  in  the  study,  and 
put  cushions  under  his  head,  and  brought  him  the  anti- 
pyrine.  She  sat  beside  him  and  dabbed  eau-de-cologne 
all  over  his  forehead,  and  blew  on  it  with  her  soft  breath. 
She  paused,  and  sat  very  still,  watching  him,  for  a  mo- 
ment that  seemed  eternity.  She  didn't  like  the  flush  on 
his  cheek  nor  the  queer  burning  brilliance  in  his  eyes. 
She  was  afraid  he  was  in  for  a  bad  illness,  and  fear  made 
her  kind. 

"Tell  me  how  you  feel,  dear,"  she  said  gently.  She 
was  determined  to  be  very  gentle  with  him. 

"Can't  you  see  how  I  feel  ?"  he  answered. 

She  laid  her  firm,  cool  hand  upon  his  forehead ;  and  he 
gave  a  cry,  the  low  cry  she  had  once  heard  and  dreamed 
of  afterwards.  He  flung  up  his  arm,  and  caught  at  her 
hand,  and  dragged  it  down,  and  held  it  close  against  his 
mouth,  and  kissed  it. 

She  drew  in  her  breath.  Her  hand  stiffened  against 
his  in  her  effort  to  withdraw  it;  and  when  he  had  let  it 
go,  she  turned  from  him  and  left  him  without  a  word. 

He  threw  himself  face  downwards  on  the  cushions, 
wounded  and  ashamed. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IT  was  Friday  evening,  the  Friday  that  followed  that 
Sunday  when  Majendie's  hope  had  risen  at  the  touch 
of  his  wife's  hand,  and  died  again  under  her  repulse. 

Friday  was  the  day  which  Maggie  Forrest  marked  in 
her  calendar  sometimes  with  a  query  and  sometimes  with 
a  cross.  The  query  stood  for  "Will  he  come?"  The 
cross  meant  "He  came."  To-night  there  was  no  cross, 
though  Maggie  had  brushed  her  hair  till  it  shone  again, 
and  put  on  her  best  dress,  and  laid  out  her  little  table 
for  tea,  and  sat  there  waiting,  like  the  ladies  in  those 
houses  where  he  went;  like  Mrs.  Hannay  or  Mrs.  Ran- 
some  who  bought  her  embroidery;  or  like  that  grand 
lady  with  the  title,  who  had  come  with  Mrs.  Ransome — 
the  lady  who  had  bought  more  embroidery  than  anybody, 
the  scent  on  whose  clothes  was  enough,  Maggie  said,  to 
take  your  breath  away. 

Maggie  loved  her  tea-table.  She  embroidered  beauti- 
ful linen  cloths  for  it.  Every  Friday  it  was  decked  as 
an  altar  dedicated  to  the  service  of  a  god — in  case  he 
came. 

He  hadn't  come.  It  was  past  eight,  yet  Maggie  left 
the  altar  standing  with  the  cloth  on  it,  and  waited.  It 
would  be  terrible  if  the  god  should  come  and  find  no 
altar.  Once,  even  at  this  late  hour,  he  had  come. 

The  house  was  very  quiet.  Mrs.  Morse  was  out  mar- 
keting, and  Maggie  was  alone.  Friday  was  market  night 
in  Scale.  She  wondered  if  he  would  remember  that,  and 

279 


280  The  Helpmate 

come.  Her  heart  beat  violently  with  the  thought  that  he 
might  be  beginning  to  come  late.  The  others  had  come 
late  when  they  began  to  love  her. 

She  had  forgotten  them,  or  only  cared  to  remember 
such  of  their  ways  as  threw  light  on  Mr.  Majendie's. 
For  he  was,  as  yet,  obscure  to  her. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  a  new  thing  had  come  to  her,  a 
thing  marvellously  and  divinely  new,  this,  that  she  should 
be  waiting,  counting  hours,  and  marking  days  on  calen- 
dars, measuring  her  own  pulses  with  a  hand,  now  on  her 
heart,  now  on  her  throbbing  forehead,  and  wondering 
what  could  be  the  matter  with  her.  Maggie  was  six- 
and-twenty ;  but  ever  since  she  was  nine  she  had  been 
waiting  and  wondering.  For  there  always  had  been 
somebody  whom  Maggie  loved  insanely.  First  it  was  the 
little  boy  who  lived  in  the  house  opposite,  at  home.  He 
had  abandoned  Maggie's  society,  and  broken  her  heart 
on  the  day  when  he  "went  into  trousers."  Then  it  was 
the  big  boy  in  her  father's  shop  who  gave  her  chocolates 
one  day  and  snubbed  her  cruelly  the  next.  Then  it  was 
the  young  man  who  came  to  tune  the  piano  in  the  back 
parlour.  Then  the  arithmetic  master  in  the  little  board- 
ing-school they  sent  her  to.  And  then  (for  Maggie's  in- 
fatuations rose  rapidly  in  the  social  scale)  it  was  one  of 
the  young  gentlemen  who  "studied"  at  the  Vicarage.  He 
was  engaged  to  Maggie  for  a  whole  term;  and  he  went 
away  and  jilted  her,  so  that  Maggie's  heart  was  broken  a 
second  time.  At  last,  on  an  evil  day  for  Maggie,  it  was 
one  of  the  gentlemen  (not  so  young)  staying  up  at  "the 
big  house."  He  watched  for  Maggie  in  dark  lanes,  and 
followed  her  through  the  fields  at  evening,  till  one  even- 
ing he  made  her  turn  and  follow  her  heart  and  him. 
And  so  Maggie  went  on  her  predestined  way. 


The  Helpmate  281 

For  after  him  there  was  the  gentleman  who  came  to 
Madame  Ponting's,  and  after  him,  Mr.  Gorst,  who  came 

to  Evans's,  and  after  Mr.  Gorst Last  year  Maggie 

could  not  have  believed  that  there  could  be  another  after 
him.  For  each  of  these  persons  she  would  willingly  have 
died.  To  each  of  them  her  soul  leaped  up  and  bowed  it- 
self, swept  forward  like  a  flame  bowed  and  driven  by  the 
wind. 

As  long  as  each  loved  her,  the  flame  burned  steadily 
and  still.  Maggie's  soul  was  appeased  for  a  season.  As 
each  left  her,  the  flame  died  out  in  tears,  and  her  pulses 
beat  feebly,  and  her  life  languished.  Maggie  went  from 
flame  to  flame;  for  the  hours  when  there  was  nobody  to 
love  simply  dropped  into  the  darkness  and  were  forgot- 
ten. She  left  off  living  when  she  had  to  leave  off  loving. 
To  be  sure  there  was  always  Mr.  Mumford.  He  was  a 
tobacconist,  and  he  lived  over  the  shop  in  a  house  front- 
ing the  pier,  a  unique  and  dominant  situation.  And  he 
was  prepared  to  overlook  the  past  and  make  Maggie  his 
wife  and  mistress  of  the  house  fronting  the  pier.  Unfor- 
tunately, Maggie  did  not  love  him.  You  couldn't  love  Mr. 
Mumford.  You  could  only  be  sorry  for  him. 

But  though  Maggie  went  from  flame  to  flame,  there 
were  long  periods  of  placidity  when  she  loved  nothing 
but  her  work,  and  was  as  good  as  gold.  Maggie's  fa- 
ther wouldn't  believe  it.  He  had  never  forgiven  her,  not 
even  when  the  doctor  told  him  that  there  was  no  sense 
in  which  the  poor  girl  could  be  held  responsible ;  they 
should  have  looked  after  her  better,  that  was  all.  Mag- 
gie's father,  the  grocer,  did  not  deal  in  smooth,  extenuat- 
ing phrases.  He  called  such  madness  sin.  So  did  Mag- 
gie in  her  hours  of  peace  and  sanity.  She  was  terrified 
when  she  felt  it  coming  on,  and  hid  her  face  from  her 


282  The  Helpmate 

doom.  But  when  it  came  she  went  to  meet  it,  uplifted, 
tremulous,  devoted,  carrying  her  poor  scorched  heart  in 
her  hand  for  sacrifice. 

Each  time  that  she  loved,  it  was  as  if  her  former  sins 
had  been  blotted  out ;  for  there  came  a  merciful  forget- 
fulness  that  renewed,  almost,  her  innocence.  Her  heart 
had  its  own  perverted  constancy.  No  lover  was  like  her 
last  lover,  and  for  him  she  rejected  and  repudiated  the 
past. 

And  each  time  that  she  loved  she  was  torn  asunder. 
She  gave  herself  in  pieces ;  her  heart  first,  then  her  soul, 
then,  if  it  must  needs  be,  her  body.  The  finest  first,  then 
all  that  was  left  of  her.  That  was  her  unique  merit, 
what  marked  her  from  the  rest. 

Majendie,  she  divined  by  instinct,  had  recognised  her 
quality.  He  was  the  only  one  who  had.  And  he  had 
asked  nothing  of  her.  She  would  have  lived  miserably 
for  Charlie  Gorst.  She  would  have  died  with  joy  for 
Mr.  Majendie.  And  Maggie  feared  death  worse  than 
life,  however  miserable. 

But  there  was  something  in  her  love  for  Majendie  that 
revealed  it  as  a  thing  apart.  It  had  not  made  her  idle. 
Her  passion  for  Mr.  Majendie  blossomed  and  flowered, 
and  ran  over  in  beautiful  embroidery.  That  industry 
ministered  to  it.  Her  heart  was  set  on  having  those  lit- 
tle sums  to  send  him  every  week;  for  that  was  the  only 
way  she  could  hope  to  approach  him  of  her  own  move- 
ment. She  loved  the  curt  little  notes  in  which  Ma- 
jendie acknowledged  the  receipt  of  each  postal  order. 
She  tied  them  together  with  white  ribbon,  and  treasured 
them  in  a  little  box  under  lock  and  key.  All  the  time,  she 
knew  he  had  a  wife  and  child,  but  her  fancy  refused  to 
recognise  Mrs.  Majendie's  existence.  It  allowed  him  to 


The  Helpmate  283 

have  a  child,  but  not  a  wife.  She  knew  that  he  spent  his 
Saturdays  and  Sundays  with  them  at  his  home.  He 
never  came,  or  could  come,  on  a  Saturday  or  Sunday,  and 
Maggie  refused  to  consider  the  significance  of  this.  She 
simply  lived  from  Friday  to  Friday.  No  other  day  in 
the  week  existed  for  Maggie.  All  other  days  heralded  it, 
or  followed  in  its  train.  The  blessed  memory  of  it  rested 
upon  Saturday  and  Sunday.  Wednesday  and  Thursday 
glowed  and  vibrated  with  its  coming;  Mondays  and 
Tuesdays  were  forlorn  and  grey.  Terrible  were  the  days 
which  followed  a  Friday  when  he  had  not  come. 

He  had  not  come  last  Friday,  nor  the  Friday  before 
that.  She  had  always  a  comfortable  little  theory  to  cheat 
herself  with,  to  account  for  his  not  coming.  He  had  been 
ill  last  Friday ;  that,  of  course,  was  why  he  had  not  come. 
Maggie  knew.  She  did  not  like  to  think  he  was  ill;  but 
she  did  like  to  think  that  only  illness  could  prevent 
his  coming.  And  she  had  always  believed  what  she 
liked. 

The  presumption  in  Maggie's  mind  amounted  to  a  cer- 
tainty that  he  would  come  to-night. 

And  at  nine  o'clock  he  came. 

Her  eyes  shone  as  she  greeted  him.  There  was  noth- 
ing about  her  to  remind  him  of  the  dejected,  anaemic  girl 
who  had  sat  shivering  over  the  fire  last  September. 
Maggie  had  got  all  her  lights  and  colours  back  again. 
She  was  lifted  from  her  abasement,  glorified.  And  yet, 
for  all  her  glory,  Maggie,  on  her  good  behaviour,  became 
once  more  the  prim  young  lady  of  the  lower  middle  class. 
She  sat,  as  she  had  been  used  to  sit  on  long,  dull  Sunday 
afternoons  in  the  parlour  above  the  village  shop,  bolt 
upright  on  her  chair,  with  her  meek  hands  folded  in  her 
lap.  But  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Majendie,  their  ardent 


284  The  Helpmate 

candour  contrasting  oddly  with  the  stiff  modesty  of  her 
deportment. 

"Have  you  been  ill?"  she  asked. 

"Why  should  I  have  been  ill?" 

"Because  you  didn't  come." 

"You  mustn't  suppose  I'm  ill  every  time  I  don't  come. 
I  might  be  a  chronic  invalid  at  that  rate." 

He  hadn't  realised  how  often  he  came.  He  didn't 
mark  the  days  with  crosses  in  a  calendar. 

"But  you  were  ill,  this  time,  I  know." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

The  processes  of  Maggie's  mind  amused  him.  It  was 
such  a  funny,  fugitive,  burrowing,  darting  thing,  Mag- 
gie's mind,  transparent  and  yet  secret  in  its  ways. 

"I  know,  because  I  saw "  she  hesitated. 

"Saw  what  ?" 

"The  light  in  your  window." 

"My  window?" 

"Yes.  The  one  that  looks  out  on  the  garden  at  the 
back.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  on  Sunday  night,  and  on 
Monday  night  the  light  was  gone,  and  I  knew  that  you 
were  better." 

"As  it  happens,  you  saw  the  light  in  my  sister's  room. 
She's  always  ill." 

"Oh,"  said  Maggie;  and  her  face  fell  with  the  fall  of 
her  great  argument. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said,  "the  light  burns  all  night  long." 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie,  musing;  "sometimes  it  burns  all 
night  long.  But  in  the  room  above  that  room,  there's 
a  little  soft  light  that  burns  all  night,  too.  That's  your 
room." 

"No,  that's  my  wife's  room." 

Maggie  became  thoughtful.    "I  used  to  think  that  was 


The  Helpmate  285 

where  your  little  girl  sleeps,  because  of  the  night-light. 
Then  your  room's  next  it."  Maggie  desired  to  know  all 
about  the  blessed  house  that  contained  him. 

"That's  the  spare  room,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"Goodness !  what  a  lot  of  rooms.  Then  yours  is  the  one 
next  the  nursery,  looking  on  the  street.  Fancy!  That 
little  room." 

Again  she  became  thoughtful.    So  did  he. 

"I  say,  Maggie,  how  did  you  know  those  lights  burned 
all  night  ?" 

"Because  I  saw  them." 

"You  can't  see  them." 

"Yes,  you  can;  from  the  little  alley  that  goes  along 
at  the  back." 

He  hadn't  thought  of  the  alley.  Nobody  ever  passed 
that  way  after  dark;  it  ended  in  a  blind  wall. 

"What  were  you  doing  there  at  twelve  o'clock  at 
night?" 

He  looked  for  signs  of  shame  and  confusion  on  Mag- 
gie's face.  But  Maggie's  face  was  one  flame  of  joy.  Her 
eyes  were  candid. 

"Walking  up  and  down,"  she  said.    "I  was  watching." 

"Watching?" 

"Your  window." 

"You  mustn't,  Maggie.  You  mustn't  watch  people's 
windows.  They  don't  like  it.  It  doesn't  do." 

The  flame  was  troubled ;  but  not  the  lucid  candour  of 
Maggie's  eyes.  "I  had  to.  I  thought  you  were  ill.  I 
came  to  make  sure.  I  was  all  alone.  I  didn't  let  anybody 
see  me.  And  when  I  saw  the  light  I  was  frightened. 
And  I  came  again  the  next  night  to  see.  I  didn't  think 
you'd  mind.  It's  not  as  if  I'd  come  to  the  front  door,  or 
written  letters,  was  it?" 


286  The  Helpmate 

"No.  But  you  must  never  do  that  again,  mind.  How 
did  you  know  the  house?" 

Maggie  hung  her  head.  "I  saw  your  little  girl  go  in 
there." 

"Were  you  'watching'?" 

"N-no.    It  was  an  accident." 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  my  little  girl?" 

"I  saw  you  walking  with  her,  one  Saturday,  in  the 
Park.  It  was  an  accident — really.  I  was  taking  my  work 
to  that  lady  who  buys  from  me — Mrs.  'Anny." 

"I  see." 

"You're  not  angry  with  me,  Mr.  Magendy?" 

"Of  course  not.     What  made  you  think  I  was?" 

"Your  face.  You  would  be  angry  if  I  followed  you. 
But  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing.  I've  never  followed 
any  one — never.  And  I  wouldn't  do  it  now,  not  if  I  was 
paid,"  she  protested. 

"It's  all  right,  Maggie,  it's  all  right." 

Maggie  clasped  her  knees  and  sat  thinking.  She 
seemed  to  know  by  intuition  when  it  was  advantageous  to 
be  silent,  and  when  to  speak.  But  Majendie  was  think- 
ing, too.  He  was  wondering  whether  he  was  not  being  a 
little  too  kind  to  Maggie;  whether  a  little  unkindness 
would  not  be  a  salutary  change  for  both  of  them.  Why 
couldn't  the  girl  marry  Mr.  Mumford?  He  didn't  want 
to  profit  by  the  transaction.  He  would  have  gladly  paid 
Mr.  Mumford  to  marry  her,  and  take  her  away. 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  a  veil  for  his 
thoughts ;  and  when  he  took  it  away  again,  Maggie  had 
risen  and  was  going  on  soundless  feet  towards  the 
door. 

"Don't  go,"  she  said,  "I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

He  flung  himself  back  in  the  chair  and  waited.  The 


The  Helpmate  287 

minutes  dragged.  He  had  wanted  Maggie  away;  and 
now  she  had  gone  he  wanted  her  back  again. 

Maggie  did  not  stay  away  long  enough  to  give  him 
time  to  discover  how  much  he  wanted  her.  She  came 
back,  carrying  a  tray  with  cups  and  a  steaming  coffee  pot, 
and  set  it  on  the  table. 

A  fragrance  of  strong  coffee  filled  the  room.  The  ser- 
vice of  the  god  had  begun. 

She  stood  close  against  his  side,  yet  humbly,  as  she 
handed  him  his  cup.  "It's  nice  and  strong,"  she  said. 
"Drink  it.  It'll  do  your  head  good." 

And  she  sat  down  opposite  him,  and  watched  him 
drink  it. 

Maggie's  watching  face  was  luminous  and  tender.  In 
her  eyes  there  was  the  look  that  love  gives  for  his  signal 
— love  that,  in  that  moment,  was  pure  and  sweet  as  a 
mother's.  She  was  glad  to  think  that  the  coffee  was 
strong,  and  would  do  his  head  good.  She  had  no  other 
thought  in  her  mind,  at  that  moment. 

After  the  coffee  she  brought  matches  and  cigarettes, 
which  she  offered  shyly.  Nature  had  given  her  an  im- 
mortal shyness,  born  of  her  extreme  humility. 

"They're  all  right,"  she  said,  "Charlie  smoked  them." 

(Charlie  was  at  times  a  useful  memory.) 

She  struck  a  match  and  prepared  to  light  the  cigarette. 
This  she  did  gravely  and  efficiently,  with  no  sign  of  femi- 
nine consciousness  or  coquetry.  It  was  part  of  the  sol- 
emn evening  service  of  the  god.  And,  as  he  smoked,  the 
devotee  retreated  to  her  chair  and  watched  him. 

"Maggie,"  he  said,  "supposing  Mr.  Mumford  was  to 
come  in?" 

"He  won't.  Sunday's  his  day;  or  would  be,  if  I  let 
him  'ave  a  day." 


288  The  Helpmate 

"Why  don't  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.    "I've  seen  nobody." 

There  was  silence  for  five  minutes. 

"Mr.  Magendy " 

"Majendie,  Maggie,  Majendie." 

"Mr.  Mashendy — I'm  beginning  to  be  afraid." 

"What  are  you  afraid  of  ?" 

"What  I've  always  told  you  about.  That  awful  feel- 
ing. It's  coming  on  again,  I  think." 

"It  won't  come,  Maggie,  it  won't  come.  Don't  think 
about  it,  and  it  won't  come." 

He  didn't  understand  very  clearly  what  Maggie  was 
talking  about;  but  he  remembered  that,  last  September, 
after  her  illness,  she  had  been  afraid  of  something.  And 
he  remembered  that  he  had  comforted  her  with  some  such 
words  as  these. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "but  I  feel  it  coming." 

"Maggie,  you  oughtn't  to  live  alone  like  this.  See  here, 
you  ought  to  marry.  You  ought  to  marry  Mr.  Mumford. 
Why  don't  you?" 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody.  And  I  don't  love 
him." 

"Well,  don't  think  about  that  other  thing.  Don't  think 
about  it.  You'll  be  all  right." 

"I  won't  think,"  said  Maggie,  and  thought  profoundly. 

"Mr.  Majendie,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Madam." 

"You  mustn't  be  afraid.  I  shall  never  do  anything  I 
know  you  wouldn't  like  me  to." 

"All  right.  Only  don't  think  too  much  about  that, 
either." 

"I  can't  help  thinking.  You've  been  so  good  to 
me." 


The  Helpmate  289 

"I  should  try  and  forget  that,  too,  a  little  more,  if  I 
were  you.  I'm  only  paying  some  of  Mr.  Gorst's  debts 
for  him." 

The  name  called  up  no  colour  to  her  cheek.  Maggie 
had  forgotten  Gorst,  and  all  he  had  done  for  her. 

"And  you're  paying  me  back." 

She  shook  her  head.    "I  can't  ever  pay  you  back." 

Poor  little  girl!  Was  that  what  her  mind  was  always 
running  on? 

There  was  silence  again  between  them.  And  then  Ma- 
jendie  looked  at  Maggie. 

She  was  sitting  very  still,  as  if  she  were  waiting  for 
something,  and  yet  content.  Her  eyes  were  swimming, 
as  if  with  tears;  but  there  were  no  tears  in  them.  Her 
face  was  reddening,  as  if  with  shame,  but  there  was  no 
shame  in  it.  She  seemed  to  be  listening,  dazed  and  en- 
chanted, to  her  own  secret,  the  running  whisper  of  her 
blood.  Her  lips  were  parted,  and,  as  he  looked  at  her, 
they  closed  and  opened  again  in  sympathy  with  the  deli- 
cate tremors  that  moved  her  throat  under  her  rounded 
chin.  In  her  brooding  look  there  was  neither  reminis- 
cence nor  foreboding;  it  was  the  look  of  a  creature  sur- 
rendered wholly  to  her  hour. 

As  he  looked  at  her  his  nerves  sent  an  arrow  of  warn- 
ing, a  hot  tremor  darting  from  heart  to  brain. 

"I  must  go  now,  Maggie,"  he  said. 

When  he  stood  up,  his  knees  shook  under  him. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Maggie.  "I'm  all  alone  in  the  house, 
and  I'm  afraid." 

"There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,"  he  said  roughly. 
"I've  got  to  go." 

He  strode  towards  the  door  while  Maggie  stared  after 
him  in  terror.  She  understood  nothing  but  that  he  was 


290  The  Helpmate 

going  to  leave  her.  What  had  she  done  to  drive  him 
away? 

"You're  ill,"  she  cried,  as  she  followed  him,  panting 
in  her  fright. 

He  pushed  her  back  gently  from  the  threshold. 

"Don't  be  a  little  fool,  Maggie.    I'm  not  ill." 

Out  in  the  street,  five  yards  from  Maggie's  door,  he 
battled  with  a  vision  of  her  that  almost  drove  him  back 
again.  "It  was  I  who  was  a  fool,"  he  thought.  "I  shall 
go  back.  Why  not?  She  is  predestined.  Why  not  I  as 
well  as  anybody  else?" 

All  the  way  to  his  own  door  an  insistent,  abominable 
voice  kept  calling  to  him,  "Why  not?  Why  not?" 

He  went  with  noiseless  footsteps  up  his  own  stairs,  past 
the  dark  doors  below,  past  Edith's  open  door  where  the 
lamp  still  burned  brightly  beyond  the  threshold.  At 
Anne's  door  he  paused. 

It  stood  ajar  in  a  dim  light.  He  pushed  it  softly  open 
and  went  in. 

Anne  and  her  child  lay  asleep  under  the  silver  crucifix. 

Peggy  had  been  taken  into  Anne's  bed,  and  had  curled 
herself  close  up  against  her  mother's  side.  Her  arm  lay 
on  Anne's  breast ;  one  hand  clutched  the  border  of  Anne's 
nightgown.  The  long  thick  braid  of  Anne's  hair  was 
flung  back  on  the  pillow,  framing  the  child's  golden  head 
in  gold. 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  looked  at  them.  For  a 
moment  his  heart  stood  still.  Why  not  he  as  well  as  any- 
body else?  His  heart  told  him  why. 

As  he  turned  he  sighed.  A  sigh  of  longing  and  ten- 
derness, and  of  thankfulness  for  a  great  deliverance. 
Above  all,  of  thankfulness. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  light  burned  in  Edith's  room  till  morning;  for 
her  spine  kept  sleep  from  her  through  many 
nights.  They  no  longer  said,  "She  is  better,  or  certainly 
no  worse."  They  said,  "She  is  worse,  or  certainly  no 
better."  The  progress  of  her  death  could  be  reckoned 
by  weeks  and  measured  by  inches.  Soon  they  would  be 
giving  her  morphia,  to  make  her  sleep.  Meanwhile  she 
was  terribly  awake. 

She  heard  her  brother's  soft  footsteps  as  he  passed  her 
door.  She  heard  him  pause  on  the  upper  landing  and 
creep  into  the  room  overhead.  She  heard  him  go  out 
again  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  little  room  beyond. 
There  came  upon  her  an  awful  intuition  of  the  truth. 

The  next  day  she  sent  for  him. 

"What  is  it,  Edie?"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  loving  eyes,  and  asked  him  as 
Maggie  had  asked,  "Are  you  ill?" 

He  started.  The  question  brought  back  to  him  vividly 
the  scene  of  the  night  before ;  brought  back  to  him  Mag- 
gie with  her  love  and  fear. 

"What  is  it  ?    Tell  me,"  she  insisted. 

He  owned  to  headaches.    She  knew  he  often  had  them. 

"It's  not  a  bit  of  use,"  she  said,  "trying  to  deceive  me. 
It's  not  headaches.  It's  Anne." 

"Poor  Anne.  I  think  she's  all  right.  After  all,  she's 
got  the  child,  you  know." 

"Yes.  She's  got  Peggy.  If  I  could  see  you  all  right, 
too,  I  should  die  happy." 

291 


292  The  Helpmate 

"Don't  worry  about  me.     I'm  not  worth  it." 

She  gazed  at  him  searchingly,  confirmed  in  her  intu- 
ition. That  was  the  sort  of  thing  poor  Charlie  used  to 
say. 

"It's  my  fault,"  she  said.    "It  always  has  been." 

"Angel,  if  you  could  lay  everybody's  sins  on  your  own 
shoulders,  you  would." 

"I  mean  it.  You  were  right  and  I  was  wrong.  Ah, 
how  one  pays !  Only  you've  had  to  pay  for  my  untruth- 
fulness.  I  can  see  it  now.  If  I'd  done  as  you  asked  me, 
in  the  beginning,  and  told  her  the  truth " 

"She  wouldn't  have  married  me.  No,  Edie.  You're 
assuming  that  I've  lived  to  regret  that  I  married  her.  I 
never  have  regretted  it  for  one  single  moment.  Not  for 
myself,  that  is.  For  her,  yes.  Granted  that  I'm  as  un- 
happy as  you  please,  I'd  rather  be  unhappy  with  her  than 
happy  without  her.  See?" 

"Walter — if  you  keep  true  to  her,  I  believe  you'll  have 
your  happiness  yet.  I  don't  know  how  it's  coming.  It 
may  come  very  late.  But  it's  bound  to  come.  She's 
good " 

He  assented  with  a  groan.    "Oh,  much  too  good." 

"And  the  goodness  in  her  must  recognise  the  good- 
ness in  you ;  when  she  understands.  I  believe  she's  be- 
ginning to  understand.  She  doesn't  know  how  much  she 
understands." 

"Understands  what?" 

"Your  goodness.  She  loved  you  for  it.  She'll  love 
you  for  it  again." 

"My  dear  Edie,  you're  the  only  person  who  believes 
in  my  goodness — you  and  Peggy." 

"I  and  Peggy.  And  Charlie  and  the  Hannays.  And 
Nanna  and  the  Gardners — and  God." 


The  Helpmate  293 

"I  wish  God  would  give  Anne  a  hint  that  He  thinks 
well  of  me." 

"Dear — if  you  keep  true  to  her — He  will." 

If  he  kept  true  to  her !  It  was  the  second  time  she  had 
said  it.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  divined  what  had 
so  nearly  happened. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "I'd  like  to  talk  to  Anne,  now,  while 
I  can  talk.  You  see,  once  they  go  giving  me  morphia" 
— she  closed  her  eyes.  "Just  let  me  lie  still  for  half  an 
hour,  and  then  bring  Anne  to  me." 

She  lay  still.  He  watched  her  for  an  hour.  And  he 
knew  that  in  that  hour  she  had  prayed. 

He  found  Anne  sitting  on  the  nursery  floor,  playing 
with  Peggy.  "Edie  wants  you,"  he  said,  loosening 
Peggy's  little  hands  as  they  clung  about  his  legs. 

"Mother  must  go,  darling,"  said  she. 

But  all  Peggy  said  was,  "Daddy'll  stay." 

He  did  not  stay  long.  He  had  to  restrain  himself,  to 
go  carefully  with  Peggy,  lest  he  should  help  her  to  make 
her  mother's  heart  ache. 

Anne  found  Nanna  busied  about  the  bed.  Nanna  was 
saying,  "Is  that  any  easier,  Miss  Edie?" 

"It's  heavenly,  Nanna,"  said  Edie,  stifling  a  moan. 
"Oh  dear,  I  hope  in  the  next  world  I  shan't  feel  as  if  my 
spine  were  still  with  me,  like  people  when  their  legs  are 
cut  off." 

"Miss  Edie,  what  an  idea !" 

"Well,  Nanna,  you  can't  tell  whether  it  mayn't  be  so. 
Anne,  dear,  you've  got  such  a  nice,  pretty  body,  why  have 
you  such  a  withering  contempt  for  it?  It  behaves  so 
well  to  you,  too.  That's  more  than  I  can  say  of  mine; 
and  yet,  I  believe  I  shall  quite  miss  it  when  it's  gone.  At 
any  rate,  I  shall  be  glad  that  I  was  decent  to  the  poor 


294  The  Helpmate 

thing  while  it  was  with  me.  Run  away  now,  please, 
Nanna,  and  shut  the  door." 

Nanna  thought  she  knew  why  Miss  Edie  wanted  the 
door  shut.  She,  too,  had  her  intuitive  forebodings.  She 
was  aware,  the  whole  household  was  aware,  that  the  mis- 
tress cared  more  for  her  child  than  for  the  husband  who 
had  given  it  her.  Their  master's  life  was  not  altogether 
happy.  They  wondered  many  times  how  he  was  going 
to  stand  it. 

"Anne,"  said  Edith,  "I'm  uneasy  about  Walter." 

"You  need  not  be,"  said  Anne. 

"Why?     Aren't  you?" 

"I  know  he  hasn't  been  well  lately " 

"How  can  you  expect  him  to  be  well  when  he's  so 
unhappy  ?" 

Anne  was  silent. 

"How  long  is  it  going  to  last,  dear?  And  where  is  it 
going  to  end  ?" 

"Edith,  you  needn't  be  afraid.  I  shall  never  leave 
him." 

That  was  not  what  Edith  was  afraid  of,  but  she  did  not 
say  so. 

"How  can  I,"  Anne  went  on,  "when  I  believe  the 
Church's  doctrine  of  marriage?" 

"Do  you?  Do  you  believe  that  love  is  a  provision  for 
the  soul's  redemption  of  the  body?  or  for  the  body's  re- 
demption of  the  soul?" 

"I  believe  that,  having  married  Walter,  whatever 
he  is  or  does,  I  cannot  leave  him  without  great 
sin." 

"Then  you'll  be  shocked  when  I  tell  you  that  if  your 
husband  were  a  bad  man,  I  should  be  the  first  to  implore 
you  to  leave  him,  though  he  is  my  brother.  Where  there 


The  Helpmate  295 

can  be  no  love  on  either  side  there's  no  marriage,  and  no 
sacrament.  That's  my  profane  belief." 

"And  when  there's  love  on  one  side  only  ?" 

"The  sacrament  is  there,  offered  by  the  loving  person, 
and  refused  by  the  unloving.  And  that  refusal,  my  dear 
child,  may,  if  you  like,  be  a  great  sin — supposing,  of 
course,  that  the  love  is  pure  and  devoted.  I  hardly  know 
which  is  the  worst  sin,  then,  to  refuse  to  give,  or  to  refuse 
to  take  it ;  or  to  take  it,  and  then  throw  it  away.  What 
would  you  think  if  Peggy  hardened  her  little  heart 
against  you?" 

"My  Peggy!" 

"Yes,  your  Peggy.  It's  the  same  thing.  You'll  see 
it  some  day.  But  I  want  you  to  see  it  now,  before  it's 
too  late." 

"Edie,  if  you'd  only  tell  me  where  I've  failed!  If 
you're  thinking  of  our — our  separation " 

"I  was  not.  But,  since  you  have  mentioned  it,  I  can't 
help  reminding  you  that  you  fell  in  love  with  Walter 
because  you  thought  he  was  a  saint.  And  so  I  don't  see 
what's  to  prevent  you  now.  He's  qualifying.  He  mayn't 
be  perfect ;  but,  in  some  ways,  a  saint  couldn't  very  well 
do  more.  Has  it  never  occurred  to  that  you  are  indulging 
the  virtue  that  comes  easiest  to  you,  and  exacting  from 
him  the  virtue  that  comes  hardest?  And  he  has  stood 
the  test." 

"It  was  his  own  doing — his  own  wish." 

"Is  it?  I  doubt  it — when  he's  more  in  love  with  you 
than  he  was  before  he  married  you." 

"That's  all  over." 

"For  you.  Not  for  him.  He's  a  man,  as  you  may  say, 
of  obstinate  affections." 

"Ah,  Edie — you  don't  know." 


296  The  Helpmate 

"I  know,"  said  Edith,  "you're  perfectly  sweet,  the  way 
you  take  my  scoldings.  It's  cowardly  of  me,  when  I'm 
lying  here  safe,  and  you  can't  scold  back  again.  But  I 
wouldn't  do  it  if  I  didn't  love  you." 

"I  know — I  know  you  love  me." 

"But  I  couldn't  love  you  so  much,  if  I  didn't  love  Wal- 
ter more." 

"You  well  may,  Edie.  He's  been  a  good  brother  to 
you." 

"Some  day  you'll  own  he's  been  as  good  a  husband  as 
he's  been  a  brother.  Better ;  for  it's  a  more  difficult  post, 
my  dear.  I  don't  really  think  my  body,  spine  and  all,  can 
have  tried  him  more  than  your  spirit." 

"What  have  I  done?    Tell  me— tell  me." 

"Done?  Oh,  Nancy,  I  hate  to  have  to  say  it  to  you. 
What  haven't  you  done?  There's  no  way  in  which  you 
haven't  hurt  and  humiliated  him.  I'm  not  thinking  of 
your  separation — I'm  thinking  of  the  way  you've  treated 
him,  and  his  affection  for  you  and  Peggy.  You  won't  let 
him  love  you.  You  won't  even  let  him  love  his  little 
girl." 

"Does  he  say  that?" 

"Would  he  say  it?  People  in  my  peculiar  position 
don't  require  to  have  things  said  to  them ;  they  say  them. 
You  see,  if  I  didn't  say  them  now  I  should  have  to  get  up 
out  of  my  grave  and  do  it,  and  that  would  be  ten  times 
more  disagreeable  for  you.  It  might  even  be  very  un- 
comfortable for  me." 

"Edie,  I  wish  I  knew  when  you  were  serious." 

"Well,  if  I'm  not  serious  now,  when  shall  I  be?" 

Anne  smiled.    "You're  very  like  Walter." 

"Yes.  He's  every  bit  as  serious  as  I  am.  And  he's 
getting  more  and  more  serious  every  day." 


The  Helpmate  297 

"Oh,  Edie,  you  don't  understand.  I — I've  suffered 
so  terribly." 

"I  do  understand.  I've  gone  through  it — every  pang 
of  it — and  it's  all  come  back  to  me  again  through  your 
suffering — and  I  know  it's  been  worse  for  you.  I've  told 
him  so.  It's  because  I  don't  want  you  to  suffer  more 
that  I'm  saying  these  awful  things  to  you." 

"Oh !    Am  I  to  suffer  more?" 

"I  believe  that's  the  only  way  your  happiness  can  come 
to  you — through  great  suffering.  I'm  only  afraid  that 
the  suffering  may  come  through  Peggy,  if  you  don't  take 
care." 

"Peggy " 

It  was  her  own  terror  put  into  words. 

"Yes.  That  child  has  a  terrible  capacity  for  loving. 
And  for  her  that  means  suffering.  She  loves  you.  She 
loves  her  father.  Do  you  suppose  she  won't  suffer  when 
she  sees?  Her  little  heart  will  be  torn  in  two  between 
you." 

"Oh,  Edith— I  cannot  bear  it." 

She  hid  her  face  from  the  anguish. 

"You  needn't.    That's  it.    It  rests  with  you." 

"With  me?    If  you  would  only  tell  me  how." 

"I  can't  tell  you  anything.  It'll  come.  Probably  in  the 
way  you  least  expect  it.  But — it'll  come." 

"Edie,  I  feel  as  if  you  held  us  all  together.  And  when 
you've  gone " 

"You  mean  when  it's  gone.  When  it's  'gone,'  "  said 
Edie,  smiling,  "I  shall  hold  you  together  all  the  more. 
You  needn't  sigh  like  that." 

"Did  I  sigh?" 

As  Anne  stooped  over  the  bed  she  sighed  again,  think- 
ing how  Edith's  loving  arms  used  to  leap  up  and  hold 


298  The  Helpmate 

her,  and  how  they  could  never  hold  anything  any 
more. 

Of  all  the  things  that  Edith  said  to  her  that  afternoon, 
two  remained  fixed  in  Anne's  memory :  how  Peggy  would 
suffer  through  overmuch  loving — she  remembered  that 
saying,  because  it  had  confirmed  her  terror;  and  how 
love  was  a  provision  for  the  soul's  redemption  of  the 
body,  or  for  the  body's  redemption  of  the  soul.  This  she 
remembered,  because  she  did  not  understand  it. 

That  was  in  August.  Before  the  month  was  out  they 
were  beginning  to  give  Edith  morphia. 

In  September  Gorst  came  to  see  her  for  the  last  time. 

In  October  she  died  in  her  brother's  arms. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  it  was  as  if  her  spirit,  refus- 
ing to  depart  from  them,  had  rested  on  the  sister  she  had 
loved.  Spirit  to  spirit,  she  stooped,  kindling  in  Anne 
her  own  dedicated  flame.  In  the  white  death-chamber, 
and  through  the  quiet  house,  the  presence  of  Anne,  mov- 
ing with  a  hushed  footfall,  was  like  the  presence  of  a 
blessed  spirit.  Her  face  was  as  a  face  long  hidden  upon 
the  heart  of  peace.  Her  very  grief  aspired ;  it  had  wings, 
lifting  her  towards  her  sister  in  her  heavenly  place. 

For  Anne,  in  the  days  that  followed,  was  possessed  by 
a  great  and  burning  charity.  Mrs.  Hannay  called  and 
was  taken  into  the  white  room  to  see  Edith.  And  Anne's 
heart  went  out  to  Mrs.  Hannay,  when  she  spoke  of  the 
beauty  and  goodness  of  Edith;  and  to  Lawson  Hannay, 
when  he  pressed  her  hand  without  speaking;  and  to 
Gorst,  when  she  saw  him  stealing  on  tiptoe  from  Edith's 
room,  his  face  swollen  and  inflamed  with  grief.  Her 
heart  went  out  to  all  of  them,  because  they  had  loved 
Edith. 

And  to  her  husband  her  heart  went  out  with  a  tender- 


The  Helpmate  299 

ness  born  of  an  immense  pity  and  compassion.  For  the 
first  three  days,  Majendie  gave  no  sign  that  he  was 
shaken  by  his  sister's  death.  But  on  the  evening  of  the 
day  they  buried  her,  Anne  found  him  in  the  study,  sitting 
in  his  low  chair  by  the  fire,  his  head  sunk,  his  body  bowed 
forward  over  his  knees,  convulsed  with  a  nervous  shiver- 
ing. He  started  and  stared  at  her  approach,  and  straight- 
ened himself  suddenly.  She  held  out  her  hand.  He 
looked  at  it  dumbly,  as  if  unwilling  or  afraid  to  take  it. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  softly. 

Then  she  knelt  beside  him,  and  drew  his  head  down 
upon  her  breast,  and  let  it  rest  there. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  a  Thursday  night  in  October,  three  weeks  after 
Edith's  death.  Anne  was  in  her  room,  undressing. 
She  moved  noiselessly,  with  many  tender  precautions,  for 
fear  of  waking  Peggy,  and  for  fear  of  destroying  the 
peace  that  possessed  her  own  soul  like  heavenly  sleep.  It 
was  the  mystic  mood  that  went  before  prayer. 

In  those  three  weeks  Anne  felt  that  she  had  been 
brought  very  near  to  God.  She  had  not  known  such 
stillness  and  content  since  the  days  at  Scarby  that  had 
made  her  life  terrible.  It  was  as  if  Edith's  spirit  in  bliss 
had  power  given  it  to  help  her  sister,  to  draw  Anne  with 
it  into  the  divine  presence. 

And  the  dead  woman  bound  the  living  to  each  other 
also,  as  she  had  said.  How  she  bound  them  Anne  had 
not  realised  until  to-day.  It  was  Mrs.  Eliott's  day,  her 
Thursday.  Anne  had  spent  half  an  hour  in  Thurston 
Square,  and  had  come  away  with  a  cold,  unsatisfactory 
feeling  towards  Fanny.  Fanny,  for  the  first  time,  had 
jarred  on  her.  She  had  so  plainly  hesitated  between  con- 
dolence and  congratulation.  She  seemed  to  be  secretly 
rejoicing  in  Edith  Majendie's  death.  Her  manner  inti- 
mated clearly  that  a  burden  had  been  removed  from  her 
friend's  life,  and  that  the  time  had  now  come  for  Anne  to 
blossom  out  and  enjoy  herself.  Anne  had  been  glad  to 
get  away  from  Fanny,  to  come  back  to  the  house  in  Prior 
Street  and  to  find  Walter  waiting  for  her.  Fanny,  in 
spite  of  her  intellectual  rarity,  lacked  the  sense  that,  after 

300 


The  Helpmate  301 

all,  he  had,  the  sense  of  Edith's  spiritual  perfection. 
Strangely,  inconsistently,  incomprehensibly,  he  had  it. 
He  and  his  wife  had  that  in  common,  if  they  had  nothing- 
else.  They  were  bound  to  each  other  by  Edith's  dear  and 
sacred  memory,  an  immaterial,  immortal  tie.  They 
would  always  share  their  knowledge  of  her.  Other  peo- 
ple might  take  for  granted  that  her  terrible  illness  had 
loosened,  little  by  little,  the  bond  that  held  them  to  her. 
They  knew  that  it  was  not  so.  They  never  found  them- 
selves declining  on  the  mourner's  pitiful  commonplaces, 
"Poor  Edie" ;  "She  is  released" ;  "It's  a  mercy  she  was 
taken."  It  was  their  tribute  to  Edith's  triumphant  per- 
sonality that  they  mourned  for  her  as  for  one  cut  off  in 
the  fulness  of  a  strong,  beneficent  life. 

For  those  three  weeks  Anne  remained  to  her  husband 
all  that  she  had  been  on  the  night  of  Edith's  burial. 

And,  as  she  felt  that  nobody  but  her  husband  under- 
stood what  she  had  lost  in  Edith,  she  realised  for  the  first 
time  his  kindred  to  his  sister.  She  forced  herself  to  dwell 
on  his  many  admirable  qualities.  He  was  unselfish,  chiv- 
alrous, the  soul  of  honour.  On  his  chivalry,  which 
touched  her  more  nearly  than  his  other  virtues,  she  was 
disposed  to  put  a  very  high  interpretation.  She  felt  that, 
in  his  way,  he  acknowledged  her  spiritual  perfection,  also, 
and  reverenced  it.  If  their  relations  only  continued  as 
they  were,  she  believed  that  she  would  yet  be  happy  with 
him.  To  think  of  him  as  she  had  once  been  obliged  to 
think  was  to  profane  the  sorrow  that  sanctified  him  now. 
She  was  persuaded  that  the  shock  of  Edith's  death  had 
changed  him,  that  he  was  ennobled  by  his  grief.  She 
could  not  yet  see  that  the  change  was  in  herself.  She 
said  to  herself  that  her  prayers  for  him  were  answered. 

For  it  was  no  longer  an  effort,  painful  and  perfunc- 


302  The  Helpmate 

tory,  to  pray  for  her  husband.  Since  Edith's  death  she 
had  prayed  for  him,  as  she  had  prayed  in  the  time  of  re- 
conciliation that  followed  her  first  discovery  of  his  sin. 
She  was  horrified  when  she  realised  how  in  six  years  her 
passion  of  redemption  had  grown  cold.  It  was  there  that 
she  had  failed  him,  in  letting  go  the  immaterial  hold  by 
which  she  might  have  drawn  him  with  her  into  the  secret 
shelter  of  the  Unseen.  She  perceived  that  in  those  years 
her  spiritual  life  had  suffered  by  the  invasion  of  her 
earthly  trouble.  She  had  approached  the  silent  shelter 
with  cries  of  supplication  for  herself  and  for  her  child, 
the  sweet  mortal  thing  she  had  loved  above  all  mortal 
things.  Every  year  had  made  it  harder  for  her  to  reach 
the  sources  of  her  help,  hardest  of  all  to  achieve  the  initi- 
atory state,  the  nakedness,  the  prostration,  the  stillness 
of  the  dedicated  soul.  Too  many  miseries  cried  and 
strove  in  her.  She  could  no  longer  shut  to  her  door,  and 
bar  the  passage  to  the  procession  of  her  thoughts,  no 
longer  cleanse  and  empty  her  spirit's  house  for  the  divine 
thing  she  desired  to  dwell  with  her. 

And  now  she  was  restored  to  her  peace ;  lifted  up  and 
swept,  effortless,  into  the  place  of  heavenly  help.  Anne's 
soul  had  no  longer  to  reach  out  her  hand  and  feel  her 
way  to  God,  for  it  was  God  who  sought  for  her  and  found 
her.  She  heard  behind  her,  as  it  were,  the  footsteps  of 
the  divine  pursuing  power.  Once  more,  as  in  the  mystic 
days  before  her  marriage,  she  had  only  to  close  her  eyes, 
and  the  communion  was  complete.  At  night,  when  her 
prayer  was  ended,  she  lay  motionless  in  the  darkness,  till 
she  seemed  to  pass  into  the  ultimate  bliss,  beyond  the 
reach  of  prayer.  There  were  moments  when  she  felt  her- 
self to  be  close  upon  the  very  vision  of  God,  the  beatitude 
of  the  pure. 


The  Helpmate  303 

After  these  moments  Anne  found  herself  contemplat- 
ing her  own  inviolate  sanctity. 

There  was  in  Anne  an  immense  sincerity,  underlying  a 
perfect  tangle  of  minute  deceptions  and  hypocrisies.  She 
was  not  deceived  as  to  the  supreme  event.  She  was  truly 
experiencing  the  great  spiritual  passion  which,  alone  of 
passions,  is  destined  to  an  immortal  satisfaction.  She 
had  all  but  touched  the  end  of  the  saint's  progress.  But 
she  was  ignorant,  both  of  the  paths  that  brought  her 
there,  and  the  paths  that  had  led  and  might  again  lead, 
her  feet  astray. 

Each  night,  when  she  closed  her  bedroom  door,  she 
felt  that  she  was  entering  into  a  sanctuary.  She  was  pro- 
foundly, tenderly  grateful  to  her  husband  for  the  renun- 
ciation that  made  that  refuge  possible  to  her.  She  ac- 
cepted her  blessed  isolation  as  his  gift. 

This  Thursday  had  been  a  day  of  little  lacerating  dis- 
tractions. She  had  gone  through  it  thirsting  for  the  rest 
and  surrender,  the  healing  silence  of  the  night. 

She  undressed  slowly,  being  by  nature  thorough  and 
deliberate  in  all  her  movements. 

She  was  standing  before  her  looking-glass,  about  to 
unpin  her  hair,  when  she  heard  a  low  knock  at  her  door. 
Majendie  had  been  detained,  and  was  late  in  coming  to 
take  his  last  look  at  Peggy  before  going  to  bed. 

Anne  opened  the  door  softly,  and  signed  to  him  to 
make  no  noise.  He  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  child's  cot,  and 
stood  there  for  a  moment.  Then  he  came  and  sat  down 
in  the  chair  by  the  dressing-table,  where  Anne  was  stand- 
ing with  her  arms  raised,  unpinning  her  hair.  Majendie 
had  always  admired  that  attitude  in  Anne.  It  was  sim- 
ple, calm,  classic,  and  superbly  feminine.  Her  long  white 
wrapper  clothed  her  more  perfectly  than  any  dress. 


304  The  Helpmate 

He  sat  looking  at  the  quick  white  fingers  untwisting 
the  braid  of  hair.  It  hung  divided  into  three  strands, 
still  rippling  with  the  braiding,  still  dull  with  its  folded 
warmth.  She  combed  the  three  into  one  sleek  sheet  that 
covered  her  like  a  veil,  drawn  close  over  head  and  shoul- 
ders. Her  face  showed  smooth  and  saintlike  between  the 
cloistral  bands.  Majendie  thought  he  had  never  seen 
anything  more  beautiful  than  that  face  and  hair,  with 
their  harmonies  of  dull  gold  and  sombre  white. 

"I  like  you,"  he  said;  "but  isn't  the  style  just  a  trifle 
severe  ?" 

Anne  said  nothing.  She  was  trying  to  forget  his  pres- 
ence while  she  yet  permitted  it. 

"Do  you  mind  my  looking  at  you  like  this?" 

"No." 

(They  spoke  in  low  voices,  for  fear  of  waking  the 
sleeping  child.) 

She  took  up  her  brush,  and  with  a  turn  of  her  head 
swept  her  hair  forward  over  one  shoulder.  It  hung  in 
one  mass  to  her  waist.  Then  she  began  to  brush  it. 

The  first  strokes  of  the  brush  stirred  the  dull  gold  that 
slept  in  its  ashen  furrows.  A  shining  undulation  passed 
through  it,  and  broke,  at  the  ends,  as  it  were,  into  a  curl- 
ing golden  foam.  Then  Anne  stood  up  and  tossed  it 
backwards.  Her  brush  went  deep  and  straight,  like  a 
ploughshare,  turning  up  the  rich,  smooth  swell  of  the 
under-gold ;  it  went  light  on  the  top,  till  numberless  little 
threads  of  hair  rippled,  and  rose,  and  knitted  themselves, 
and  lay  on  her  head  like  a  fine  gold  net ;  then,  with  a  few 
swift  swimming  movements,  upwards  and  outwards,  it 
scattered  the  whole  mass  into  drifting  strands  and  flying 
wings  and  soft  falling  feathers,  and,  under  them,  little 
tender  curls  of  flaxen  down.  With  another  stroke  of  the 


The  Helpmate  305 

brush  and  a  shake  of  her  head,  Anne's  hair  rose  in  one 
whorl  and  fell  again,  and  broke  into  a  shower  of  woven 
spray;  pure  gold  in  every  thread. 

Majendie  held  out  a  shy  hand  and  caught  the  receding 
curl  of  it.  Its  faint  fragrance  reached  him,  winging  a 
shaft  of  memory.  His  nerves  shook  him,  and  he  looked 
away. 

Anne  had  been  cool  and  business-like  in  every  motion, 
unconscious  of  her  effect,  unconscious  almost  of  him. 
Now  she  gathered  her  hair  into  one  mass,  and  began 
plaiting  it  rapidly,  desiring  thus  to  hasten  his  departure. 
She  flung  back  the  stiff  braid,  and  laid  her  finger  on  the 
extinguisher  of  the  shaded  lamp,  as  a  hint  for  him  to  go. 

"Anne,"  he  whispered,  "Anne " 

The  whisper  struck  fear  into  her. 

She  faced  him  calmly,  coldly;  not  unkindly.  Unkind- 
ness  would  have  given  him  more  hope  than  that  pitiless 
imperturbability. 

"Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me?"  she  said. 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  go  ?" 

"Do  you  really  mean  it?" 

"I  always  mean  what  I  say.  I  haven't  said  my  prayers 
yet." 

"And  when  you  have  said  them?" 

She  had  turned  out  the  lamp,  so  that  she  might  not  see 
his  unhappy  face.  She  did  not  see  it;  she  only  saw  her 
spiritual  vision  destroyed  and  scattered,  and  the  havoc 
of  dreams,  resurgent,  profaning  heavenly  sleep. 

"Please,"  she  whispered,  "please,  if  you  love  me,  leave 
me  to  myself." 

He  left  her ;  and  her  heart  turned  after  him  as  he  went, 
and  blessed  him. 


306  The  Helpmate 

"He  is  good,  after  all,"  her  heart  said. 

But  Majendie's  heart  had  hardened.  He  said  to  him- 
self, "She  is  too  much  for  me."  As  he  lay  awake  think- 
ing of  her,  he  remembered  Maggie.  He  remembered  that 
Maggie  loved  him,  and  that  he  had  gone  away  from  her 
and  left  her,  because  he  loved  Anne.  And  now,  because 
he  loved  Anne,  he  would  go  to  Maggie.  He  remembered 
that  it  was  on  Fridays  that  he  used  to  go  and  see  her. 

Very  well,  to-morrow  night  would  be  Friday  night. 

To-morrow  night  he  would  go  and  see  her. 

And  yet,  when  to-morrow  night  came,  he  did  not  go. 
He  never  went  until  December,  when  Maggie's  postal 
orders  left  off  coming.  Then  he  knew  that  Maggie  was 
ill  again.  She  had  been  fretting.  He  knew  it ;  although, 
this  time,  she  had  not  written  to  tell  him  so. 

He  went,  and  found  Maggie  perfectly  well.  The  postal 
orders  had  not  come,  because  the  last  lady,  the  lady  with 
the  title,  had  not  paid  her.  Maggie  was  good  as  gold 
again,  placid  and  at  peace. 

"Why,"  he  asked  himself  bitterly,  "why  did  I  not  leave 
her  to  her  peace  ?" 

And  a  still  more  bitter  voice  answered,  "Why  not  you, 
as  well  as  anybody  else?" 


BOOK   III 


BOOK    III 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 

EASTWARDS  along  the  Humber,  past  the  brown 
wharves  and  the  great  square  blocks  of  the  ware- 
houses, past  the  tall  chimneys-  and  the  docks  with  their 
thin  pine-forest  of  masts,  there  lie  the  forlorn  flat  lands 
of  Holderness.  Field  after  field,  they  stretch,  lands  level 
as  water,  only  raised  above  the  river  by  a  fringe  of  turf 
and  a  belt  of  silt  and  sand.  Earth  and  water  are  of  one 
form  and  of  one  colour,  for,  beyond  the  brown  belt,  the 
widening  river  lies  like  a  brown  furrowed  field,  with  a 
clayey  gleam  on  the  crests  of  its  furrows.  When  the  grey 
days  come,  water  and  earth  and  sky  are  one,  and  the  river 
rolls  sluggishly,  as  if  shores  and  sky  oppressed  it,  as  if  it 
took  its  motion  from  the  dragging  clouds. 

Eleven  miles  from  Scale  a  thin  line  of  red  roofs  runs 
for  a  field's  length  up  the  shore,  marking  the  neck  of  the 
estuary.  It  is  the  fishing  hamlet  of  Fawlness.  Its  one 
street  lies  on  the  flat  fields  low  and  straight  as  a  dyke. 

Beyond  the  hamlet  there  is  a  little  spit  of  land,  and 
beyond  the  spit  of  land  a  narrow  creek. 

Half  a  mile  up  the  creek  the  path  that  follows  it  breaks 
off  into  the  open  country,  and  thins  to  a  track  across  five 
fields.  It  struggles  to  the  gateway  of  a  low,  red-roofed, 
red-brick  farm,  and  ends  there.  The  farm  stands  alone, 
and  the  fields  around  it  are  bare  to  the  skyline.  Three 
tall  elms  stand  side  by  side  against  it,  sheltering  it  from 

309 


310  The  Helpmate 

the  east,  marking  its  humble  place  in  the  desolate  land. 
To  the  west  a  broad  bridle-path  joins  the  road  to 
Fawlness. 

Majendie  had  a  small  yacht  moored  in  the  creek,  near 
where  the  path  breaks  off  to  Three  Elms  Farm.  Once, 
sometimes  twice,  a  week,  Majendie  came  to  Three  Elms 
Farm.  Sometimes  he  came  for  the  week-end,  more  often 
for  a  single  night,  arriving  at  six  in  the  evening,  and  leav- 
ing very  early  the  next  day.  In  winter  he  took  the  train 
to  Hesson,  tramped  seven  miles  across  country,  and 
reached  the  farm  by  the  Fawlness  road.  In  summer  the 
yacht  brought  him  from  "Hannay  &  Majendie's"  dock  to 
Fawlness  creek.  At  Three  Elms  Farm  he  found  Maggie 
waiting  for  him. 

This  had  been  going  on,  once,  sometimes  twice  a  week, 
for  nearly  three  years,  ever  since  he  had  rented  the  farm 
and  brought  Maggie  from  Scale  to  live  there. 

The  change  had  made  the  details  of  his  life  difficult. 
It  called  for  all  the  qualities  in  which  Majendie  was  most 
deficient.  It  necessitated  endless  vigilance,  endless  har- 
assing precautions,  an  unnatural  secrecy.  He  had  to 
make  Anne  believe  that  he  had  taken  to  yachting  for  his 
health,  that  he  was  kept  out  by  wind  and  weather,  that 
the  obligations  and  complexities  of  business,  multiplying, 
tied  him,  and  claimed  his  time.  Maggie  had  to  be  hidden 
away,  in  a  place  where  no  one  came,  lodged  with  people 
whose  discretion  he  could  trust.  Pearson,  the  captain  of 
his  yacht,  a  close-mouthed,  close-fisted  Yorkshireman, 
had  a  wife  as  reticent  as  himself.  Pearson  and  his  wife 
and  their  son  Steve  knew  that  their  living  depended  on 
their  secrecy.  And  cupidity  apart,  the  three  were  de- 
voted to  their  master  and  his  mistress.  Pearson  and  his 
son  Steve  were  acquainted  with  the  ways  of  certain  gen- 


The  Helpmate  311 

tlemen  of  Scale,  who  sailed  their  yachts  from  port  to 
port,  up  and  down  the  Yorkshire  coast.  Pearson  was  a 
man  who  observed  life  dispassionately.  He  asked  no 
questions  and  answered  none. 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  early  in  October,  just 
three  years  after  Edith's  death.  Majendie  had  left  the 
yacht  lying  in  the  creek  with  Pearson,  Steve,  and  the 
boatswain  on  board,  and  was  hurrying  along  the  field 
path  to  Three  Elms  Farm.  A  thin  rain  fell,  blurring  the 
distances.  The  house  stood  humbly,  under  its  three  elms. 
A  light  was  burning  in  one  window.  Maggie  stood  at 
the  garden  gate  in  the  rain,  listening  for  the  click  of  the 
field  gate  which  was  his  signal.  When  it  sounded  she 
came  down  the  path  to  meet  him.  She  put  her  hands 
upon  his  shoulders,  drew  down  his  face  and  kissed  him. 
He  took  her  arm  and  led  her,  half  clinging  to  him,  into 
the  house  and  into  the  lighted  room. 

A  fire  burned  brightly  on  the  hearth.  His  chair  was 
set  for  him  beside  it,  and  Maggie's  chair  opposite.  The 
small  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  was  laid  for 
supper.  Maggie  had  decorated  walls  and  chimney-piece 
and  table  with  chrysanthemums  from  the  garden,  and  au- 
tumn leaves  and  ivy  from  the  hedgerows.  The  room  had 
a  glad  light  and  welcome  for  him. 

As  he  came  into  the  lamplight  Maggie  gave  one  quick 
anxious  look  at  him.  She  had  always  two  thoughts  in 
her  little  mind  between  their  meetings :  Is  he  ill  ?  Is  he 
well? 

He  was,  to  the  outward  seeing  eye,  superlatively  well. 
Three  years  of  life  lived  in  the  open  air,  life  lived  accord- 
ing to  the  will  of  nature,  had  given  him  back  his  outward 
and  visible  health.  At  thirty -nine,  Majendie  had  once 
more  the  strength,  the  firm,  upright  slenderness,  and  the 


312  The  Helpmate 

brilliance  of  his  youth.  His  face  was  keen  and  brown, 
fined  and  freshened  by  wind  and  weather. 

Maggie,  waiting  humbly  on  his  mood,  saw  that  it  was 
propitious. 

"What  cold  hands,"  said  she.  "And  no  overcoat  ?  You 
bad  boy."  She  felt  his  clothes  all  over  to  feel  if  they 
were  damp.  "Tired  ?" 

"Just  a  little,  Maggie." 

She  drew  up  his  chair  to  the  fire,  and  knelt  down  to 
unlace  his  boots. 

"No,  Maggie,  I  can't  let  you  take  my  boots  off." 

"Yes,  you  can,  and  you  will.  Does  she  ever  take  your 
boots  off?" 

"Never." 

"You  don't  allow  her?" 

"No.    I  don't  allow  her." 

"You  allow  me,"  said  Maggie  triumphantly.  She  was 
persuaded  that  (since  his  wife  was  denied  the  joy  of 
waiting  on  him)  hers  was  the  truly  desirable  position, 
Majendie  had  never  had  the  heart  to  enlighten  her. 

She  pressed  his  feet  with  her  soft  hands,  to  feel  if  his 
stockings  were  damp,  too. 

"There's  a  little  hole,"  she  cried.  "I  shall  have  to 
mend  that  to-night." 

She  put  cushions  at  his  back,  and  sat  down  on  the  floor 
beside  him,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  knee. 

"There's  a  sole  for  supper,"  said  she,  in  a  dreamy 
voice,  "and  a  roast  chicken.  And  an  apple  tart.  I  made 
it."  Maggie  had  always  been  absurdly  proud  of  the 
things  that  she  could  do. 

"Clever  Maggie." 

"I  made  it  because  I  thought  you'd  like  it." 

"Kind  Maggie." 


The  Helpmate  313 

"You  didn't  get  any  of  those  things  yesterday,  or  the 
day  before,  did  you?" 

She  was  always  afraid  of  giving  him  what  he  had  had 
at  home.  That  was  one  of  the  difficulties,  she  felt,  of  a 
double  household. 

"I  forget,"  he  said,  a  little  wearily,  "what  I  had  yes- 
terday." 

Maggie  noticed  the  weariness  and  said  no  more. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  head  and  stroked  her  hair. 
He  could  always  keep  Maggie  quiet  by  stroking  her  hair. 
She  shifted  herself  instantly  into  a  position  easier  for  his 
hand.  She  sat  still,  only  turning  to  the  caressing  hand, 
now  her  forehead,  now  the  nape  of  her  neck,  now  her 
delicate  ear. 

Maggie  knew  all  his  moods  and  ministered  to  them. 
She  knew  to-night  that,  if  she  held  her  tongue,  the  peace 
she  had  prepared  for  him  would  sink  into  him  and  heal 
him.  He  was  not  very  tired.  She  could  tell.  She  could 
measure  his  weariness  to  a  degree  by  the  movements  of 
his  hand.  When  he  was  tired  she  would  seize  the  caress- 
ing hand  and  make  it  stop.  In  a  few  minutes  supper 
would  be  ready,  and  when  he  had  had  supper,  she  knew, 
it  would  be  time  to  talk. 

Majendie  was  grateful  for  her  silence.  He  was  grateful 
to  her  for  many  things,  for  her  beauty,  for  her  sweetness, 
for  her  humility,  for  her  love  which  had  given  so  much 
and  asked  so  little.  Maggie  had  still  the  modest  charm 
that  gave  to  her  and  to  her  affection  the  illusion  of  a  per- 
fect innocence.  It  had  been  heightened  rather  than  dimin- 
ished by  their  intimacy. 

Somehow  she  had  managed  so  that,  as  long  as  he  was 
with  her,  shame  was  impossible  for  himself  or  her.  As 
long  as  he  was  with  her  he  was  wrapped  in  her  illusion, 


314  The  Helpmate 

the  illusion  of  innocence,  of  happiness,  of  all  the  un- 
spoken sanctities  of  home.  He  knew  that  whether  he 
was  or  was  not  with  her,  as  long  as  he  loved  her  no  other 
man  would  come  between  him  and  her;  no  other  man 
would  cross  his  threshold  and  stand  upon  his  hearth.  The 
house  he  came  to  was  holy  to  her.  There  were  times, 
so  deep  was  the  illusion,  when  he  could  have  believed  that 
Maggie,  sitting  there  at  his  feet,  was  the  pure  spouse, 
the  helpmate,  and  Anne,  in  the  house  in  Prior  Street,  the 
unwedded,  unacknowledged  mistress,  the  distant,  the  se- 
cret, the  forbidden.  He  had  never  disguised  from  Mag- 
gie the  temporary  and  partial  nature  of  the  tie  that  bound 
them.  But  the  illusion  was  too  strong  for  both  of  them. 
It  was  strong  upon  him  now. 

The  woman,  Mrs.  Pearson,  came  in  with  supper,  mov- 
ing round  the  room  in  silence,  devoted  and  discreet. 

Majendie  was  hungry.  Maggie  was  unable  to  conceal 
her  frank  joy  in  seeing  him  eat  and  drink.  She  ate  little 
and  talked  a  great  deal,  drawn  by  his  questions. 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  Maggie?" 

Maggie  gave  an  account  of  her  innocent  days,  of  her 
labours  in  house  and  farm  and  garden.  She  loved  all 
three,  she  loved  her  flowers  and  her  chickens  and  her 
rabbits,  and  the  little  young  pigs.  She  loved  all  things 
that  had  life.  She  was  proud  of  her  house.  Her  hands 
were  always  busy  in  it.  She  had  stitched  all  the  linen 
for  it.  She  had  made  all  the  tablecloths,  sofa  covers  and 
curtains,  and  given  to  them  embroidered  borders.  She 
liked  to  move  about  among  all  these  beautiful  things  and 
feel  that  they  were  hers.  But  she  loved  those  most  which 
Majendie  had  used,  or  noticed,  or  admired.  After  sup- 
per she  took  up  her  old  position  by  his  chair. 

"How  long  can  you  stay?"  said  she. 


The  Helpmate  315 

"I  must  go  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  why?" 

"I've  told  you  why,  dear.  It's  my  little  girl's  birthday 
to-morrow." 

She  remembered. 

"Her  birthday.    How  old  will  she  be  to-morrow?" 

"Seven." 

"Seven.    What  does  she  do  all  day  long?" 

"Oh,  she  amuses  herself.    We  have  a  garden." 

"How  she  would  love  this  garden,  and  the  flowers, 
and  the  swing,  and  the  chickens,  and  all  the  animals, 
wouldn't  she?" 

"Yes.     Yes." 

Somehow  he  didn't  like  Maggie  to  talk  about  his  child, 
but  he  hadn't  the  heart  to  stop  her. 

"Is  she  as  pretty  as  she  was?" 

"Prettier." 

"And  she's  not  a  bit  like  you." 

"Not  a  bit,  not  a  little  bit." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Maggie. 

"Why  on  earth  are  you  glad?" 

"Because — I  couldn't  bear  her  child  to  be  like  you." 

"You  mustn't  say  those  things,  Maggie,  I  don't 
like  it." 

"I  won't  say  them.  You  don't  mind  my  thinking  them, 
do  you?  I  can't  help  thinking." 

She  thought  for  a  long  time ;  then  she  got  up,  and  came 
to  him,  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and  bowed  her 
head  and  whispered. 

"Don't  whisper.  I  hate  it.  Speak  out.  Say  what 
you've  got  to  say." 

"I  can't  say  it." 

She  said  it  very  low. 


3 1 6  The  Helpmate 

He  bent  forward,  freeing  himself  from  her  mouth  and 
clinging  arm. 

"No,  Maggie.  Never.  I  told  you  that  in  the  begin- 
ning. You  promised  me  you  wouldn't  think  of  it.  It's 
bad  enough  as  it  is." 

"What's  bad  enough?" 

"Everything,  my  child.  I'm  bad  enough,  if  you  like; 
but  I'm  not  as  bad  as  all  that,  I  can  assure  you." 

"You  don't  think  me  bad?" 

"You  know  I  don't.  You  know  what  I  think  of  you. 
But  you  must  learn  to  see  what's  possible  and  what  isn't." 

"I  do  see.  Tell  me  one  thing.  Is  it  because  you  love 
her?" 

"We  can't  go  into  that,  Maggie.  Can't  you  under- 
stand that  it  may  be  because  I  love  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  don't  mind  so  long  as  I  know 
it  isn't  only  because  you  love  her." 

"You're  not  to  talk  about  her,  Maggie." 

"I  know.  I  won't.  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  her, 
I'm  sure.  I  try  not  to  think  about  her  more  than  I  can 
help." 

"But  you  must  think  of  her." 

"Oh— must  I?" 

"At  any  rate,  you  must  think  of  me." 

"I  do  think  of  you.  I  think  of  you  from  morning  till 
night.  I  dcn't  think  of  anything  else.  I  don't  want  any- 
thing else.  I'm  contented  as  long  as  I've  got  you.  It 
wasn't  that." 

"What  was  it,  Maggie  ?" 

"Nothing.  Only — it's  so  awfully  lonely  in  between, 
when  you're  not  here.  That  was  why  I  asked  you." 

"Poor  child,  poor  Maggie.    Is  it  very  bad  to  bear?" 

"Not  when  I  know  you're  coming." 


The  Helpmate  317 

"See  here — if  it  gets  too  bad  to  bear,  we  must  end  it." 

"End  it?" 

"Yes,  Maggie.  You  must  end  it;  you  must  give  me 
up,  when  you're  tired " 

"Oh  no — no,"  she  cried. 

"Give  me  up,"  he  repeated,  "and  go  back  to  town." 

"To  Scale?" 

"Well,  yes;  if  it's  so  lonely  here." 

"And  give  you  up?" 

"Yes,  Maggie,  you  must ;  if  you  go  back  to  Scale." 

"I  shall  never  go  back.  Who  could  I  go  to?  There's 
nobody  who'd  'ave  me.  I've  got  nobody." 

"Nobody?" 

"Nobody  but  you,  Wallie.  Nobody  but  you.  Have 
you  never  thought  of  that?  Why,  where  should  I  be 
if  I  was  to  give  you  up  ?" 

"I  see,  Maggie.    I  see.    I  see." 

Up  till  then  he  had  seen  nothing.  But  Maggie,  unwise, 
had  put  her  hand  through  the  fine  web  of  illusion.  She 
had  seen,  and  made  him  see,  the  tragedy  of  the  truth 
behind  it,  the  real  nature  of  the  tie  that  bound  them.  It 
was  an  inconsistent  tie,  permanent  in  its  impermanence, 
with  all  its  incompleteness  terribly  complete.  He  could 
not  give  her  up;  he  had  not  thought  of  giving  her  up; 
but  neither  had  he  thought  of  keeping  her. 

It  was  all  wrong.  It  was  wrong  to  keep  her.  It  would 
be  wrong  to  give  her  up.  He  was  all  she  had.  What- 
ever happened  he  could  not  give  her  up. 

And  so  he  said,  "I  see.    I  see." 

"See  here,"  said  she  (she  had  adopted  some  of  his 
phrases),  "when  I  said  there  was  nobody,  I  meant  nobody 
I'd  have  anything  to  do  with.  If  I  went  back  to  Scale, 
there  are  plenty  of  low  girls  in  the  town  who'd  make 


31 8  The  Helpmate 

friends  with  me,  if  I'd  let  'em.  But  I  won't  be  seen  with 
them.  You  wouldn't  have  me  seen  with  them,  would 
you?" 

"No,  Maggie,  not  for  all  the  world." 

"Well,  then,  'ow  can  you  go  on  talking  about  my  giv- 
ing you  up?" 

No.  He  could  not  give  her  up.  There  was  no  tie  be- 
tween them  but  their  sin,  yet  he  could  not  break  it.  De- 
graded as  it  was,  it  saved  him  from  deeper  degradation. 

He  loved  Anne  with  his  whole  soul,  with  his  heart  and 
with  his  body,  and  he  had  given  his  body  to  Maggie,  with 
as  much  heart  as  went  with  it.  In  the  world's  sight  he 
loved  Maggie  and  was  bound  to  Anne.  In  his  own  sight 
he  loved  Anne  and  was  bound  to  Maggie. 

It  had  come  to  that. 

He  did  not  care  to  look  back  upon  the  steps  by  which 
it  had  come.  He  only  knew  that,  seven  years  ago,  he  had 
been  sound  and  whole,  a  man  with  one  aim  and  one  pas- 
sion and  one  life.  Now  he  and  his  life  were  divided,  cut 
clean  in  two  by  a  line  not  to  be  passed  or  touched  upon 
by  either  sundered  half.  All  of  him  that  Anne  had  re- 
jected he  had  given  to  Maggie. 

As  far  as  he  could  judge  he  had  acted,  not  grossly, 
not  recklessly,  but  with  a  kind  of  passionate  deliberation. 
He  knew  he  would  have  to  pay  for  it.  He  had  not 
stopped  to  haggle  with  his  conscience  or  to  ask:  how 
much  ?  But  he  was  prepared  to  pay. 

Up  to  this  moment  his  conscience  had  not  dunned  him. 
But  now  he  foresaw  a  season  when  the  bills  would  be 
falling  due. 

Maggie  had  torn  the  veil  of  illusion,  and  he  looked  for 
the  first  time  upon  his  sin. 

Even  his  conscience  admitted  that  he  had  not  meant 


The  Helpmate  319 

it  to  come  to  that.  He  had  had  no  ancient  private  tend- 
ency to  sin.  He  wanted  nothing  but  to  live  at  home, 
happy  with  the  wife  he  loved,  and  with  his  child,  his 
children.  And  poor  Maggie,  she  too  would  have  asked 
no  more  than  to  be  a  good  wife  to  the  man  she  loved,  and 
to  be  the  mother  of  his  children. 

This  life  with  Maggie,  hidden  away  in  Three  Elms 
Farm,  in  the  wilds  of  Holderness,  it  could  not  be  called 
dissipation,  but  it  was  division.  Where  once  he  had  been 
whole  he  was  now  divided.  The  sane,  strong  affection 
that  should  have  knit  body  and  soul  together  was  itself 
broken  in  two. 

And  it  was  she,  the  helpmate,  she  who  should  have 
kept  him  whole,  who  had  caused  him  to  be  thus  sundered 
from  himself  and  her. 

They  were  all  wrong,  all  frustrated,  all  incomplete. 
Anne,  in  her  sublime  infidelity  to  earth;  Maggie,  turned 
from  her  own  sweet  use  that  she  might  give  him  what 
Anne  could  not  give;  and  he,  who  between  them  had 
severed  his  body  from  his  soul. 

Thus  he  brooded. 

And  Maggie,  with  her  face  hidden  against  his  knee, 
brooded  too,  piercing  the  illusion. 

He  tried  to  win  her  from  her  sad  thoughts  by  talking 
again  of  the  house  and  garden.  But  Maggie  was  tired 
of  the  house  and  garden  now. 

"And  do  the  Pearsons  look  after  you  well  still?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes.     Very  well." 

"And  Steve — is  he  as  good  to  you  as  ever?" 

Maggie  brightened  and  became  more  communicative. 

"Yes,  very  good.  He  was  all  day  mending  my  bicycle, 
Sunday,  and  he  takes  me  out  in  the  boat  sometimes ;  and 


320  The  Helpmate 

he's  made  such  a  dear  little  house  for  the  old  Angora 
rabbit." 

"Do  you  like  going  out  in  the  boat?" 

"Yes,  very  much." 

"Do  you  like  going  out  with  him?" 

"No,"  said  Maggie,  making  a  little  face,  half  of  dis- 
gust and  half  of  derision.  "No.  His  hands  are  all  dirty, 
and  he  smells  of  fish." 

Majendie  laughed.  "There  are  drawbacks,  I  must 
own,  to  Steve." 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  an  action  Maggie  hated.  It 
always  suggested  finality,  departure. 

"Ten  o'clock,  Maggie.  I  must  be  up  at  six  to-morrow. 
We  sail  at  seven." 

"At  seven,"  echoed  Maggie  in  despair. 

They  were  up  at  six.  Maggie  went  with  him  to  the 
creek,  to  see  him  sail.  In  the  garden  she  picked  a  chrys- 
anthemum and  stuck  it  in  his  buttonhole,  forgetting  that 
he  couldn't  wear  her  token.  There  were  so  many  things 
he  couldn't  do. 

A  little  rain  still  fell  through  a  clogging  mist.  They 
walked  side  by  side,  treading  the  drenched  grass,  for  the 
track  was  too  narrow  for  them  both.  Maggie's  feet 
dragged,  prolonging  the  moments. 

A  white  pointed  sail  showed  through  the  mist,  where 
the  little  yacht  lay  in  the  river  off  the  mouth  of  the  creek. 

Steve  was  in  the  boat  close  against  the  creek's  bank, 
waiting  to  row  Majendie  to  the  yacht.  He  touched  his 
cap  to  Majendie  as  they  appeared  on  the  bank,  but  he 
did  not  look  at  Maggie  when  her  gentle  voice  called  good- 
morning. 

Steve's  face  was  close-mouthed  and  hard  set. 

She  put  her  hands  on  Majendie's  shoulders  and  kissed 


The  Helpmate  321 

him.  Her  cheek  against  his  face  was  pure  and  cold, 
wet  with  the  rain.  Steve  did  not  look  at  them.  He  never 
looked  at  them  when  they  were  together. 

Majendie  dropped  into  the  boat.  Steve  pushed  off 
from  the  bank.  Maggie  stood  there  watching  them  go. 
She  stood  till  the  boat  reached  the  creek's  mouth,  and 
Majendie  turned,  and  raided  his  cap  to  her;  stood  till  the 
white  sail  moved  slowly  up  the  river  and  disappeared, 
rounding  the  spit  of  land. 

Majendie,  as  he  paced  the  deck  and  talked  to  his  men 
of  wind  and  weather,  turned  casually,  on  his  heel,  to  look 
at  her  where  she  stood  alone  in  the  level  immensity  of  the 
land.  The  world  looked  empty  all  around  her. 

And  he  was  touched  with  a  sudden  poignant  realisation 
of  her  life;  its  sadness,  its  incompleteness,  its  isolation. 

That  was  what  he  had  brought  her  to. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  rain  cleared  off,  the  mist  lifted,  and  at  nine 
o'clock  it  was  a  fine  day  for  Peggy's  birthday. 
Even  Scale,  where  it  stretched  its  flat  avenues  into  the 
country,  showed  golden  in  the  warm  and  brilliant  air. 

The  household  in  Prior  Street  had  been  up  early,  mak- 
ing preparations  for  the  day.  Peggy  had  waked  before 
it  was  light,  to  feel  her  presents  which  lay  beside  her  on 
her  bed;  and,  by  the  time  Majendie's  sail  had  passed 
Fawlness  Point,  she  was  up  and  dressed,  waiting  for  him. 

Anne  had  to  break  it  to  her  gently  that  perhaps  he 
would  not  be  home  in  time  for  eight-o'clock  breakfast. 
Then  the  child's  mouth  trembled,  and  Anne  comforted 
her,  half-smiling  and  half-afraid. 

"Ah,  Peggy,  Peggy,"  she  said,  as  she  rocked  her  against 
her  breast,  "what  shall  I  do  with  you?  Your  little  heart 
is  too  big  for  your  little  body." 

Anne's  terror  had  not  left  her  in  three  years.  It  was 
always  with  her  now.  The  child  was  bound  to  suffer. 
She  was  a  little  mass  of  throbbing  nerves,  of  trembling 
emotions. 

Yet  Anne  herself  was  happier.  The  three  years  had 
passed  smoothly  over  her.  Her  motherhood  had  laid  its 
fine,  soft,  finishing  touch  upon  her.  Her  face,  her  body, 
had  rounded  and  ripened,  year  after  slow  year,  to  an  abid- 
ing beauty,  born  of  her  tenderness.  At  thirty-five  Anne 
Majendie  had  reached  the  perfect  moment  of  her  physical 
maturity. 

322 


The  Helpmate  323 

Her  mind  was  no  longer  harassed  by  anxiety  about 
her  husband.  He  seemed  to  have  settled  down.  He  had 
ceased  to  be  uncertain  in  his  temper,  by  turns  irritable  and 
depressed.  He  had  parted  with  the  heaviness  which  had 
once  roused  her  aversion,  and  had  recovered  his  personal 
distinction,  the  slender  refinement  of  his  youth.  She  re- 
joiced in  his  well-being.  She  attributed  it,  partly  to  his 
open-air  habits,  partly  to  the  spiritual  growth  begun  in 
him  at  the  time  of  his  sister's  death. 

She  desired  no  change  in  their  relations,  no  further 
understanding,  no  closer  intimacy. 

To  Anne's  mind,  her  husband's  attitude  to  her  was  per- 
fect. The  passion  that  had  been  her  fear  had  left  him. 
He  waited  on  her  hand  and  foot,  with  humble,  heart- 
rending devotion.  He  let  her  see  that  he  adored  her  with 
discretion,  at  a  distance,  as  a  divinely,  incomprehensibly 
high  and  holy  thing. 

Her  household  life  had  simplified  itself.  Her  days 
passed  in  noiseless,  equable  procession.  Many  hours  had 
been  given  back  to  her  empty  after  Edith's  death.  She 
had  filled  them  with  interests  outside  her  home,  with  visit- 
ing the  poor  in  the  district  round  All  Souls,  with  evening 
classes  for  shop-girls,  with  "Rescue"  work.  Not  an  hour 
of  her  day  was  idle.  At  the  end  of  the  three  years  Mrs. 
Majendie  was  known  in  Scale  by  her  broad  charities  and 
by  her  saintly  life. 

She  had  fallen  away  a  little  from  her  friends  in  Thurs- 
ton  Square.  In  three  years  Fanny  Eliott  and  her  circle  had 
grown  somewhat  unreal  to  her.  She  had  been  aware  of 
their  inefficiency  before.  There  had  been  a  time  when  she 
felt  that  Mrs.  Eliott's  eminence  had  become  a  little  peril- 
ous. She  herself  had  placed  her  on  it,  and  held  her  there 
by  a  somewhat  fatiguing  effort  of  the  will  to  believe.  She 


324  The  Helpmate 

had  been  partly  (though  she  did  not  know  it)  the  dupe  of 
Mrs.  Eliott's  delight  in  her,  of  all  the  sweet  and  dangerous 
ministrations  of  their  mutual  vanities.  Mrs.  Eliott  had 
been  uplifted  by  Anne's  preposterously  grave  approval. 
Anne  had  been  ravished  by  her  own  distinction  as  the 
audience  of  Fanny  Eliott's  loftier  and  profounder  moods. 
There  could  be  no  criticism  of  these  heights  and  depths. 
To  have  depreciated  Fanny  Eliott's  rarity  by  a  shade 
would  have  been  to  call  in  question  her  own. 

But  all  this  had  ceased  long  ago,  when  she  married 
Walter  Majendie,  and  his  sister  became  her  dearest  friend. 
Fanny  Eliott  had  always  looked  on  Edith  Majendie  as  her 
rival ;  retreating  a  little  ostentatiously  before  her  formida- 
ble advance.  There  should  have  been  no  rivalry,  for  there 
had  been  no  possible  ground  of  comparison.  Neither 
could  Edith  Majendie  be  said  to  have  advanced.  The 
charm  of  Edith,  or  rather,  her  pathetic  claim,  was  that 
she  never  could  have  advanced  at  all.  To  Anne's  mind, 
from  the  first,  there  had  been  no  choice  between  Edith, 
lying  motionless  on  her  sofa  by  the  window,  and  Fanny 
at  large  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  her  acquaintances,  scat- 
tering her  profuse  enthusiasms,  revolving  in  her  intel- 
lectual round,  the  prisoner  of  her  own  perfections.  To 
come  into  Edith's  room  had  been  to  come  into  thrilling 
contact  with  reality ;  while  Fanny  Eliott  was  for  ever  put- 
ting you  off  with  some  ingenious  refinement  on  it.  Edith's 
personality  had  triumphed  over  death  and  time.  Fanny 
Eliott,  poor  thing,  still  suffered  by  the  contrast. 

Of  all  Anne's  friends,  the  Gardners  alone  stood  the 
test  of  time.  She  had  never  had  a  doubt  of  them.  They 
had  come  later  into  her  life,  after  the  perishing  of  her 
great  illusion.  The  shock  had  humbled  her  senses  and 
disposed  her  to  reverence  for  the  things  of  intellect.  Dr. 


The  Helpmate  325 

Gardner's  position,  as  President  of  the  Scale  Literary  and 
Philosophic  Society,  was  as  a  high  rock  to  which  she 
clung.  Mrs.  Gardner  was  dear  to  her  for  many  reasons. 

The  dearness  of  Mrs.  Gardner  was  significant.  It 
showed  that,  thanks  to  Peggy,  Anne's  humanisation  was 
almost  complete. 

To-day,  which  was  Peggy's  birthday,  Anne's  heart  was 
light  and  happy.  She  had  planned,  that,  if  the  day  were 
fine,  the  festival  was  to  be  celebrated  by  a  picnic  to 
Westleydale. 

And  the  day  was  fine.  Majendie  had  promised  to  be 
home  in  time  to  start  by  the  nine-fifty  train.  Meanwhile 
they  waited.  Peggy  had  helped  Mary  the  cook  to  pack 
the  luncheon  basket,  and  now  she  felt  time  heavy  on  her 
little  hands. 

Anne  suggested  that  they  should  go  upstairs  and  help 
Nanna.  Nanna  was  in  Majendie's  room,  turning  out  his 
drawers.  On  his  bed  there  was  a  pile  of  suits  of  the  year 
before  last,  put  aside  to  be  given  to  Anne's  poor  people. 
When  Peggy  was  tired  of  fetching  and  carrying,  she 
watched  her  mother  turning  over  the  clothes  and  sorting 
them  into  heaps.  Anne's  methods  were  rapid  and  efficient. 

"Oh,  mummy !"  cried  Peggy,  "don't !  You  touch  dad- 
dy's things  as  if  you  didn't  like  them." 

"Peggy,  darling,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"You're  so  quick."  She  laid  her  face  against  one 
of  Majendie's  coats  and  stroked  it.  "Must  daddy's  things 
go  away?" 

"Yes,  darling.    Why  don't  you  want  them  to  go?" 

"Because  I  love  them.  I  love  all  his  little  coats  and 
hats  and  shoes  and  things." 

"Oh,  Peggy,  Peggy,  you're  a  little  sentimentalist.  Go 
and  see  what  Nanna's  got  there." 


326  The  Helpmate 

Nanna  had  given  a  cry  of  joyous  discovery.  "Look, 
ma'am,"  said  she,  "what  I've  found  in  master's  port- 
manteau." 

Nanna  came  forward,  shaking  out  a  child's  frock.  A 
frock  of  pure  white  silk,  embroidered  round  the  neck 
and  wrists  with  a  deep  border  of  daisies,  pink  and  white 
and  gold. 

"Nanna!" 

"Oh,  mummy,  what  is  it?" 

Peggy  touched  a  daisy  with  her  soft  forefinger  and 
shrank  back  shyly.  She  knew  it  was  her  birthday,  but 
she  did  not  know  whether  the  frock  had  anything  to  do 
with  that,  or  no. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Anne,  "what  little  girl  daddy  brought 
that  for." 

"Did  daddy  bring  it?" 

"Yes,  daddy  brought  it.  Do  you  think  he  meant  it  for 
her  birthday,  Nanna  ?" 

"Well,  m'm,  he  may  have  meant  it  for  her  birthday  last 
year.  I  found  it  stuffed  into  'is  portmanteau  wot  'e  took 
with  him  in  the  yacht  a  year  ago.  It's  bin  there — poked 
away  in  the  cupboard,  ever  since.  I  suppose  he  bought 
it,  meaning  to  give  it  to  Miss  Peggy,  and  put  it  away  and 
forgot  all  about  it.  See,  m'm" — Nanna  measured  the 
frock  against  Peggy's  small  figure — "it'd  'a'  bin  too  large 
for  her,  last  birthday.  It'll  just  fit  her  now,  m'm." 

"Oh,  Peggy  !"  said  Anne.  "She  must  put  it  on.  Quick, 
Nanna.  You  shall  wear  it,  my  pet,  and  surprise 
daddy." 

"What  fun !"  said  Peggy. 

'7.m't  it  fun  ?"  Anne  was  as  gay  and  as  happy  as  Peggy. 
She  was  smiling  her  pretty  smile. 

Peggy  was  solemnly  arrayed  in  the  little  frock.     The 


The  Helpmate  327 

borders  of  daisies  showed  like  a  necklace  and  bracelets 
against  her  white  skin. 

"Well,  m'm,"  said  Nanna,  "if  master  did  forget,  he 
knew  what  he  was  about,  at  the  time,  anyhow.  It's  the 
very  frock  for  her." 

"Yes.  See,  Peggy — it's  daisies,  marguerites.  That's 
why  daddy  chose  it — for  your  little  name,  darling,  do  you 
see?" 

"My  name,"  said  Peggy  softly,  moved  by  the  wonder 
and  beauty  of  her  frock. 

"There  he  is,  Peggy!    Run  down  and  show  yourself/' 

"Oh,  muvver,"  shrieked  Peggy,  "it  will  be  a  surprise 
for  daddy,  won't  it?" 

She  ran  down.  They  followed,  and  leaned  over  the 
bannisters  to  listen  to  the  surprise.  They  heard  Peggy's 
laugh  as  she  came  to  the  last  flight  of  stairs  and  showed 
herself  to  her  father.  They  heard  her  shriek  "Daddy ! 
daddy !"  Then  there  was  calm. 

Then  Peggy's  voice  dropped  from  its  high  joy  and 
broke.  "Oh,  daddy,  are  you  angry  with  me?" 

Anne  came  downstairs.  Majendie  had  the  child  in  his 
arms  and  was  kissing  her. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me,  daddy?"  she  repeated. 

"No,  my  sweetheart,  no."  He  looked  up  at  Anne.  He 
was  very  pale,  and  a  sweat  was  on  his  forehead.  "Who 
put  that  frock  on  her  ?" 

"I  did,"  said  Anne. 

"I  think  you'd  better  take  it  off  again,"  he  said  quietly. 

Anne  raised  her  eyebrows  as  a  sign  to  him  to  look 
at  Peggy's  miserable  mouth.  "Oh,  let  her  wear  it,"  she 
said.  "It's  her  birthday." 

Majendie  wiped  his  forehead  and  turned  aside  into 
the  study. 


328  The  Helpmate 

"Muvver,"  said  Peggy,  as  they  went  hand  in  hand  up- 
stairs again;  "do  you  think  daddy  really  meant  it  as  a 
surprise  for  me?" 

"I  think  he  must  have  done,  darling." 

"Aren't  you  sorry  we  spoiled  his  surprise,  mummy?" 

"I  don't  think  he  minds,  Peggy." 

"I  think  he  does.  Why  did  he  look  angry,  and  say  I 
was  to  take  it  off?" 

"Perhaps,  because  it's  rather  too  nice  a  frock  for  every 
day." 

"My  birthday  isn't  every  day,"  said  Peggy. 

So  Peggy  wore  the  frock  that  Maggie  had  made  for 
her  and  given  to  Majendie  last  year.  .  He  had  hidden  it 
in  his  portmanteau,  meaning  to  give  it  to  Mrs.  Ransome 
at  Christmas.  And  he  had  thrown  the  portmanteau  into 
the  darkest  corner  of  the  cupboard,  and  gone  away  and 
forgotten  all  about  it. 

And  now  the  sight  of  Maggie's  handiwork  had  given 
him  a  shock.  For  his  sin  was  heavy  upon  him.  Every 
day  he  went  in  fear  of  discovery.  Anne  would  ask  him 
where  he  had  got  that  frock,  and  he  would  have  to  lie 
to  her.  And  it  would  be  no  use;  for,  sooner  or  later, 
she  would  know  that  he  had  lied;  and  she  would  tiack 
Maggie  down  by  the  frock. 

He  hated  to  see  his  innocent  child  dressed  in  the  gar- 
ment which  was  a  token  and  memorial  of  his  sin.  He 
wished  he  had  thrown  the  damned  thing  into  the  Humber. 

But  Anne  had  no  suspicion.  Her  face  was  smooth 
and  tranquil  as  she  came  downstairs.  She  was  calling 
Peggy  her  "little  treasure,"  and  her  eyes  were  smiling 
as  she  looked  at  the  frail,  small,  white  and  gold  creature, 
stepping  daintily  and  shyly  in  her  delicate  dress. 

Peggy  was  buttoned  into  a  little  white  coat  to  keep 


The  Helpmate  329 

her  warm ;  and  they  set  out,  Majendie  carrying  the  lunch- 
eon basket,  and  Peggy  an  enormous  doll. 

Peggy  enjoyed  the  journey.  When  she  was  not  talk- 
ing to  Majendie  she  was  singing  a  little  song  to  keep  the 
doll  quiet,  so  that  the  time  passed  very  quickly  both  for 
her  and  him.  There  were  other  people  in  the  carriage, 
and  Anne  was  afraid  they  would  be  annoyed  at  Peggy's 
singing.  But  they  seemed  to  like  it  as  much  as  she  and 
Majendie.  Nobody  was  ever  annoyed  with  Peggy. 

In  Westleydale  the  beech  trees  were  in  golden  leaf. 
It  was  green  underfoot  and  on  the  folding  hills.  Over- 
head it  was  limitless  blue  above  the  uplands ;  and  above 
the  woods,  among  the  golden  tree-tops,  clear  films  and 
lacing  veins  and  brilliant  spots  of  blue. 

Majendie  felt  Peggy's  hand  tighten  on  his  hand.  Her 
little  body  was  trembling  with  delight. 

They  found  the  beech  tree  under  which  he  and  Anne 
had  once  sat.  He  looked  at  her.  And  she,  remembering, 
half  turned  her  face  from  him;  and,  as  she  stooped  and 
felt  for  a  soft  dry  place  for  the  child  to  sit  on,  she 
smiled,  half  unconsciously,  a  shy  and  tender  smile. 

Then  he  saw,  beside  her  half-turned  face,  the  face  of 
another  woman,  smiling,  shyly  and  tenderly,  another 
smile ;  and  his  heart  smote  him  with  the  sorrow  of  his  sin. 

They  sat  down,  all  three,  under  the  beech  tree;  and 
Peggy  took,  first  Majendie's  hand,  then  Anne's  hand,  and 
held  them  together  in  her  lap. 

"Mummy,"  said  she,  "aren't  you  glad  that  daddy  came  ? 
It  wouldn't  be  half  so  nice  without  him,  would  it?" 

"No,"  said  Anne,  "it  wouldn't." 

"Mummy,  you  don't  say  that  as  if  you  meant  it." 

"Oh,  Peggy,  of  course  I  meant  it." 

"Yes,  but  you  didn't  make  it  sound  so." 


3 30  The  Helpmate 

"Peggy,"  said  Majendie,  "you're  a  terribly  observant 
little  person." 

"She's  a  little  person  who  sometimes  observes  all 
wrong." 

"No,  mummy,  I  don't.  You  never  talk  to  daddy  like 
you  talk  to  me." 

"You're  a  little  girl,  dear,  and  daddy's  a  big  grown- 
up man." 

"That's  not  what  I  mean,  though.  You've  got  a  grown- 
up voice  for  me,  too.  I  don't  mean  your  grown.-up  voice. 
I  mean,  mummy,  you  talk  to  daddy  as  if — as  if  you  hadn't 
known  him  a  very  long  time.  And  you  talk  to  me  as  if 
you'd  known  me — oh,  ever  so  long.  Have  you  known  me 
longer  than  you've  known  daddy?" 

Majendie  gazed  with  feigned  abstraction  at  the 
shoulder  of  the  hill  visible  through  the  branches  of  the 
trees. 

"Bless  you,  sweetheart,  I  knew  daddy  long  before  you 
were  ever  thought  of." 

"When  was  I  thought  of,  mummy?" 

"I  don't  know,  darling." 

"Do  you  know,  daddy?" 

"Yes,  Peggy.  /  know.  You  were  thought  of  here,  in 
this  wood,  under  this  tree,  on  mummy's  birthday,  be- 
tween eight  and  nine  years  ago." 

"Who  thought  of  me?" 

"Ah,  that's  telling." 

"Who  thought  of  me,  mummy  ?" 

"Daddy  and  I,  dear." 

"And  you  forgot,  and  daddy  remembered." 

"Yes.  I've  got  a  rather  better  memory  than  your 
mother,  dear." 

"You  forgot  my  old  birthday,  daddy." 


The  Helpmate  331 

"I  haven't  forgotten  your  mother's  old  birthday, 
though." 

Peggy  was  thinking.  Her  forehead  was  all  wrinkled 
with  the  intensity  of  her  thought. 

"Mummy — am  I  only  seven?" 

"Only  seven,   Peggy." 

"Then,"  said  Peggy,  "you  did  think  of  me  before 
I  was  born.  How  did  you  know  me  before  I  was 
born?" 

Anne  shook  her  head. 

"Daddy,  how  did  you  know  me  before  I  was  born  ?" 

"Peggy,  you're  a  little  tease." 

"You  brought  it  on  yourself,  my  dear.  Peggy,  if  you'll 
leave  off  teasing  daddy,  I'll  tell  you  a  story." 

"Oh ! " 

"Once  upon  a  time"  (Anne's  voice  was  very  low) 
"mummy  had  a  dream.  She  dreamed  she  was  in  this 
wood,  walking  along  that  little  path — just  there — not 
thinking  of  Peggy.  And  when  she  came  to  this  tree 
she  saw  an  angel,  with  big  white  wings.  He  was  lying 
under  this  very  tree,  on  this  very  bit  of  grass,  just  there, 
where  daddy's  sitting.  And  one  of  his  wings  was 
stretched  out  on  the  grass,  and  it  was  hollow  like  a  cradle. 
It  was  all  lined  with  little  feathers,  like  the  inside  of  a 
swan's  wing,  as  soft  as  soft.  And  the  other  wing  was 
stretched  over  it  like  the  top  of  a  cradle.  And  inside, 
all  among  the  soft  little  feathers,  there  was  a  little  baby 
girl  lying,  just  like  Peggy." 

"Oh,  mummy,  was  it  me?" 

"Sh — sh — sh!  Whoever  it  was,  the  angel  saw  that 
mummy  loved  it,  and  wanted  it  very  much " 

"The  little  baby  girl?" 

"Yes.    And  so  he  took  the  baby  and  gave  it  to  mummy, 


332  The  Helpmate 

to  be  her  own  little  girl.  That's  how  Peggy  came  to 
mummy." 

"And  did  he  give  it  to  daddy,  too,  to  be  his  little  girl  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Majendie,  "I  was  wondering  where  I  came 
in." 

"Yes.    He  gave  it  to  daddy  to  be  his  little  girl,  too." 

"I'm  glad  he  gave  me  to  daddy.  The  angel  brought  me 
to  you  in  the  night,  like  daddy  brought  me  my  big  dolly. 
You  did  bring  my  big  dolly,  and  put  her  on  my  bed, 
didn't  you,  daddy?  Last  night?" 

Majendie  was  silent. 

"Daddy  wasn't  at  home  last  night,  Peggy." 

"Oh,  daddy,  where  were  you?" 

Majendie  felt  his  forehead  getting  damp  again. 

"Daddy  was  away  on  business." 

"Oh,  mummy,  don't  you  wish  he'd  never  go  away?" 

"I  think  it's  time  for  lunch,"  said  Majendie. 

They  ate  their  lunch ;  and  when  it  was  ended,  Majendie 
went  to  the  cottage  to  find  water,  for  Peggy  was  thirsty. 
He  returned,  carrying  water  in  a  pitcher,  and  followed 
by  a  red-cheeked,  rosy  little  girl  who  brought  milk  in  a 
cup  for  Peggy. 

Anne  remembered  the  cup.  It  was  the  same  cup  that 
she  had  drunk  from  after  her  husband.  And  the  child 
was  the  same  child  whom  he  had  found  sitting  in  the 
grass,  whom  he  had  shown  to  her  and  taken  from  her 
arms,  whose  little  body,  held  close  to  hers,  had  unsealed 
in  her  the  first  springs  of  her  maternal  passion.  It  all 
came  back  to  her. 

The  little  girl  beamed  on  Peggy  with  a  face  like  a 
small  red  sun,  and  Peggy  conceived  a  sudden  yearning 
for  her  companionship.  It  seemed  that,  at  the  cottage, 
there  were  rabbits,  and  a  new  baby,  and  a  litter  of  pup- 


The  Helpmate  333 

pies  three  days  old.  And  all  these  wonders  the  little  girl 
offered  to  show  to  Peggy,  if  Peggy  would  go  with  her. 

Peggy  begged,  and  went  through  the  wood,  hand  in 
hand  with  the  little  beaming  girl.  Majendie  and  Anne 
watched  them  out  of  sight. 

"Look  at  the  two  pairs  of  legs,"  said  Majendie. 

Anne  sighed.  Her  Peggy  showed  very  white  and  frail 
beside  the  red,  lusty-legged  daughter  of  the  woods. 

"I'm  not  at  all  happy  about  her,"  said  she. 

"Why  not?" 

"She  gets  so  terribly  tired." 

"All  children  do,  don't  they?" 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "Not  as  she  does.  It  isn't  a 
child's  healthy  tiredness.  It  doesn't  come  like  that.  It 
came  on  quite  suddenly  the  other  day,  after  she'd  been 
excited ;  and  her  little  lips  turned  grey." 

"Get  Gardner  to  look  at  her." 

"I'm  going  to.  He  says  she  ought  to  be  more  in  the 
open  air.  I  wish  we  could  get  a  cottage  somewhere  in 
the  country,  with  a  nice  garden." 

Majendie  said  nothing.  He  was  thinking  of  Three 
Elms  Farm,  and  the  garden  and  the  orchard,  and  of  the 
pure  wind  that  blew  over  them  straight  from  the  sea. 
He  remembered  how  Maggie  had  said  that  the  child 
would  love  it. 

"You  could  afford  it,  Walter,  couldn't  you,  now?" 

"Of  course  I  can  afford  it." 

He  thought  how  easily  it  could  be  done,  if  he  gave  up 
his  yacht  and  the  farm.  His  business  was  doing  better 
every  year.  But  the  double  household  was  a  drain  on  his 
fresh  resources.  He  could  not  very  well  afford  to  take 
another  house,  and  keep  the  farm  too.  He  had  thought 
of  that  before.  He  had  been  thinking  of  it  last  night 


334  The  Helpmate 

when  he  spoke  to  Maggie  about  giving  him  up.  Poor 
Maggie!  Well,  he  would  have  to  manage  somehow.  If 
the  worst  came  to  the  worst  they  could  sell  the  house 
in  Prior  Street.  And  he  would  sell  the  yacht. 

"I  think  I  shall  sell  the  yacht,"  he  said. 

"Oh  no,  you  mustn't  do  that.  You've  been  so  well 
since  you've  had  it." 

"No,  it  isn't  necessary.  I  shall  be  better  if  I  take  more 
exercise." 

Peggy  came  back  and  the  subject  dropped. 

Peggy  was  very  unhappy  before  the  picnic  ended.  She 
was  tired,  so  tired  that  she  cried  piteously,  and  Majendie 
had  to  take  her  up  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  all  the  way 
to  the  station.  Anne  carried  the  doll. 

In  the  train  Peggy  fell  asleep  in  her  father's  arms.  She 
slept  with  her  face  pressed  close  against  him,  and  one 
hand  clinging  to  his  breast.  Her  head  rested  on  his  arm, 
and  her  hair  curled  over  his  rough  coat-sleeve. 

"Look "  he  whispered. 

Anne  looked.    "The  little  lamb "  she  said. 

Then  she  was  silent,  discerning  in  the  man's  face,  bent 
over  the  sleeping  child,  the  divine  look  of  love  and  ten- 
derness. She  was  silent,  held  by  an  old  enchantment  and 
an  older  vision;  brooding  on  things  dear  and  secret  and 
long-forgotten. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THOUGH  Thurston  Square  saw  little  of  Mrs.  Ma- 
jendie,  the  glory  of  Mrs.  Eliott's  Thursdays  re- 
mained undiminished.  The  same  little  procession  filed 
through  her  drawing-room  as  before.  Mrs.  Pooley,  Miss 
Proctor,  the  Gardners,  and  Canon  Wharton.  Mrs.  Eliott 
was  more  than  ever  haggard  and  pursuing ;  she  had  more 
than  ever  the  air  of  clinging,  desperate  and  exhausted,, 
on  her  precipitous  intellectual  heights. 

But  Mrs.  Pooley  never  flagged,  possibly  because  her 
ideas  were  vaguer  and  more  miscellaneous,  and  therefore 
less  exhausting.  It  was  she  who  now  urged  Mrs.  Eliott 
on.  This  year  Mrs.  Pooley  was  going  in  for  thought- 
power,  and  for  mind-control,  and  had  drawn  Mrs.  Eliott 
in  with  her.  They  still  kept  it  up  for  hours  together,  and 
still  they  dreaded  the  disastrous  invasions  of  Miss 
Proctor. 

Miss  Proctor  rode  roughshod  over  the  thought-power, 
and  trampled  contemptuously  on  the  mind-control.  Mrs. 
Gardner's  attitude  was  mysterious  and  unsatisfactory. 
She  seemed  to  stand  serenely  on  the  shore  of  the  deep 
sea  where  Mrs.  Eliott  and  Mrs.  Pooley  were  for  ever 
plunging  and  sinking,  and  coming  up  again,  bobbing  and 
bubbling,  to  the  surface.  Her  manner  implied  that  she 
would  die  rather  than  go  in  with  them ;  it  also  suggested 
that  she  knew  rather  more  about  the  thought-power  and 
the  mind-control  than  they  did ;  but  that  she  did  not  wish 
to  talk  so  much  about  it. 

335 


336  The  Helpmate 

Mr.  Eliott,  dexterous  as  ever,  and  fortified  by  the  exact 
sciences,  took  refuge  from  the  occult  under  his  covering 
of  profound  stupidity.  He  had  a  secret  understanding 
with  Dr.  Gardner  on  the  subject.  His  spirit  no  longer 
searched  for  Dr.  Gardner's  across  the  welter  of  his  wife's 
drawing-room,  knowing  that  it  would  find  it  at  the 
club. 

Now,  in  October,  about  four  o'clock  on  the  Thursday 
after  Peggy's  birthday,  Canon  Wharton  and  Miss  Proc- 
tor met  at  Mrs.  Eliott's.  The  Canon  had  watched  his  op- 
portunity and  drawn  his  hostess  apart. 

"May  I  speak  with  you  a  moment,"  he  said,  "before 
your  other  guests  arrive?" 

Mrs.  Eliott  led  him  to  a  secluded  sofa.  "If  you'll  sit 
here,"  said  she,  "we  can  leave  Johnson  to  entertain  Miss 
Proctor." 

"I  am  perplexed  and  distressed,"  said  the  Canon, 
"about  our  dear  Mrs.  Majendie." 

Mrs.  Eliott's  eyes  darkened  with  anxiety.  She  clasped 
her  hands.  "Oh  why?  What  is  it?  Do  you  mean  about 
the  dear  little  girl  ?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  little  girl.  But  I  hear  very 
unpleasant  things  about  her  husband." 

"What  things  ?" 

The  Canon's  face  was  reticent  and  grim.  He  wished 
Mrs.  Eliott  to  understand  that  he  was  no  unscrupulous 
purveyor  of  gossip;  that  if  he  spoke,  it  was  under  con- 
straint and  severe  necessity. 

"I  do  not,"  said  the  Canon,  "usually  give  heed  to  disa- 
greeable reports.  But  I  am  afraid  that,  where  there 
is  such  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke,  there  must  be  some  fire." 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  "perhaps  they  didn't  get 
on  very  well  together  once.  But  they  seem  to  have 


The  Helpmate  337 

made  it  up  after  the  sister's  death.  She  has  been  hap- 
pier these  last  three  years.  She  has  been  a  different 
woman." 

"The  same  woman,  my  dear  lady,  the  same  woman. 
Only  a  better  saint.  For  the  last  three  years,  they  say, 
he  has  been  living  with  another  woman." 

"Oh — it's  impossible.  Impossible.  He  is  away  a  great 
deal— but— 

"He  is  away  a  great  deal  too  often.  Running  up  to 
Scarby  every  week  in  that  yacht  of  his.  In  with  the  Ran- 
somes  and  all  that  disreputable  set." 

"Is  Lady  Cayley  in  Scale?" 

"Lady  Cayley  is  at  Scarby." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say " 

"I  mean,"  said  the  Canon,  rising,  "to  say  nothing." 

Mrs.  Eliott  detained  him  with  her  eyes  of  anguish. 

"Canon  Wharton — do  you  think  she  knows  ?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you." 

The  Canon  never  told.     He  was  far  too  clever. 

Mrs.  Eliott  wandered  to  Miss  Proctor. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Miss  Proctor,  searching  Mrs. 
Eliott's  face  with  an  inquisitive  gaze,  "how  our  friends, 
the  Majendies,  are  getting  on?" 

"Oh,  as  usual.  I  see  very  little  of  her  now.  Anne  is 
quite  taken  up  with  her  little  girl  and  with  her  good 
works." 

"Oh !  That,"  said  Miss  Proctor,  "was  a  most  unsuit- 
able marriage." 

It  was  five  o'clock.  The  Canon  and  Miss  Proctor  had 
drunk  their  two  cups  of  tea  and  departed.  Mrs.  Pooley 
had  arrived  soon  after  four ;  she  lingered,  to  talk  a  little 
more  about  the  thought-power  and  the  mind-control. 
Mrs.  Pooley  was  convinced  that  she  could  make  things 


338  The  Helpmate 

happen.  That  they  were,  in  fact,  happening.  But  Mrs. 
Eliott  was  no  longer  interested. 

Mrs.  Pooley,  too,  departed,  feeling  that  dear  Fanny's 
Thursday  had  been  a  disappointment.  She  had  been 
quite  unable  to  sustain  the  conversation  at  its  usual 
height. 

Mrs.  Pooley  indubitably  gone,  Mrs.  Eliott  wandered 
down  to  Johnson  in  his  study.  There,  in  perfect  confi- 
dence, she  revealed  to  him  the  Canon's  revelations. 

Johnson  betrayed  no  surprise.  That  story  had  been 
going  the  round  of  his  club  for  the  last  two  years. 

"What  will  Anne  do?"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  "when  she 
finds  out?" 

"I  don't  suppose  she'll  do  anything." 

"Will  she  get  a  separation,  do  you  think  ?" 

"How  can  I  tell  you  ?" 

"I  wonder  if  she  knows." 

"She's  not  likely  to  tell  you,  if  she  does." 

"She's  bound  to  know,  sooner  or  later.  I  wonder  if 
one  ought  to  prepare  her?" 

"Prepare  her  for  what?" 

"The  shock  of  it.  I'm  afraid  of  her  hearing  in  some 
horrid  way.  It  would  be  so  awful,  if  she  didn't  know." 

"It  can't  be  pleasant,  any  way,  my  dear." 

"Do  advise  me,  Johnson.  Ought  I  or  ought  I  not  to 
tell  her?" 

Mr.  Eliott's  face  told  how  his  nature  shrank  from  the 
agony  of  decision.  But  he  was  touched  by  her  distress. 

"Certainly  not.    Much  better  let  well  alone." 

"If  I  were  only  sure  that  it  was  well  I  was  letting 
alone." 

"Can't  be  sure  of  anything.  Give  it  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt." 


The  Helpmate  339 

"Yes — but  if  you  were  I?" 

"If  I  were  you  I  should  say  nothing." 

"That  only  means  that  I  should  say  nothing  if  I  were 
you.  But  I'm  not." 

"Be  thankful,  my  dear,  at  any  rate,  for  that." 

He  took  up  a  book,  The  Search  for  Stellar  Parallaxes, 
a  book  that  he  understood  and  that  his  wife  could  not 
understand.  That  book  was  the  sole  refuge  open  to  him 
when  pressed  for  an  opinion.  He  knew  that,  when  she 
saw  him  reading  it,  she  would  realise  that  he  was  her 
intellectual  master. 

The  front  doorbell  announced  the  arrival  of  another 
caller. 

She  went  away,  wondering,  as  he  meant  she  should, 
whether  he  were  so  very  undecided,  after  all.  Certainly 
his  indecisions  closed  a  subject  more  effectually  than 
other  people's  verdicts. 

She  found  Anne  in  the  empty,  half-dark  drawing- 
room  waiting  for  her.  She  had  chosen  the  darkest  cor- 
ner, and  the  darkest  hour. 

"Fanny,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  trembled,  "are  you 
alone?  Can  I  speak  to  you  a  moment?" 

"Yes,  dear,  yes.  Just  let  me  leave  word  with  Mason 
that  I'm  not  at  home.  But  no  one  will  come  now." 

In  the  interval  she  heard  Anne  struggling  with  the  sob 
that  had  choked  her  voice.  She  felt  that  the  decision 
had  been  made  for  her.  The  terrible  task  had  been  taken 
out  of  her  hands.  Anne  knew. 

She  sat  down  beside  her  friend  and  put  her  hand  on 
her  shoulder.  In  that  moment  poor  Fanny's  intellectual 
vanities  dropped  from  her,  like  an  inappropriate  garment, 
and  she  became  pure  woman.  She  forgot  Anne's  recent 
disaffection  and  her  coldness,  she  forgot  the  years  that 


340  The  Helpmate 

had  separated  them,  and  remembered  only  the  time  when 
Anne  was  the  girl-friend  who  had  loved  her,  and  had 
come  to  her  in  all  her  griefs,  and  had  made  her  house 
her  home. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  she  murmured. 

Anne  felt  for  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  She  tried  to 
speak,  but  no  words  would  come. 

"Of  course,"  thought  Mrs.  Eliott,  "she  cannot  tell  me. 
But  she  knows  I  know." 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "can  I  or  Johnson  help  you?" 

Anne  shook  her  head;  but  she  pressed  her  friend's 
hand  tighter. 

Wondering  what  she  could  do  or  say  to  help  her,  Mrs. 
Eliott  resolved  to  take  Anne's  knowledge  for  granted, 
and  act  upon  it. 

"If  there's  trouble,  dear,  will  you  come  to  us?  We 
want  you  to  look  on  our  house  as  a  refuge,  any  hour  of 
the  day  or  night." 

Anne  stared  at  her  friend.  There  was  something 
ominous  and  dismaying  in  her  solemn  tenderness,  and  it 
roused  Anne  to  wonder,  even  in  her  grief. 

"You  cannot  help  me,  dear,"  she  said.  "No  one  can. 
Yet  I  had  to  come  to  you  and  tell  you " 

"Tell  me  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  "if  you  can." 

Anne  tried  to  steady  her  voice  to  tell  her,  and  failed. 
Then  Fanny  had  an  inspiration.  She  felt  that  she  must 
divert  Anne's  thoughts  from  the  grief  that  made  her 
dumb,  and  get  her  to  talk  naturally  of  other  things. 

"How's  Peggy  ?"  said  she.  She  knew  it  would  be  good 
to  remind  her  that,  whatever  happened,  she  had  still  the 
child. 

But  at  that  question,  Anne  released  Mrs.  Eliott's  hand, 
and  laid  her  head  back  upon  the  cushion  and  cried. 


The  Helpmate  341 

"Dear,"  whispered  Mrs.  Eliott,  with  her  inspiration 
full  upon  her,  "you  will  always  have  her." 

Then  Anne  sat  up  in  her  corner,  and  put  away  her 
tears,  and  controlled  herself  to  speak. 

"Fanny,"  she  said,  "Dr.  Gardner  has  seen  her.  He 
says  I  shall  not  have  her  very  long.  Perhaps — a  few 
years — if  we  take  the  very  greatest  care " 

"Oh,  my  dear!     What  is  it?" 

"It's  her  heart.  I  thought  it  was  her  spine,  because 
of  Edie.  But  it  isn't.  She  has  valvular  disease.  Oh, 
Fanny,  I  didn't  think  a  little  child  could  have  it." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Mrs.  Eliott,  shocked  into  a  great  calm. 
"But  surely — if  you  take  care " 

"No.  He  gives  no  hope.  He  only  says  a  few  years, 
if  we  leave  Scale  and  take  her  into  the  country.  She 
must  never  be  overtired,  never  excited.  We  must  never 
vex  her.  He  says  one  violent  crying  fit  might  kill  her. 
And  she  cries  so  easily.  She  cries  sometimes  till  she's 
sick." 

Mrs.  Eliott's  face  had  grown  white ;  she  trembled,  and 
was  dumb  before  the  anguish  of  Anne's  face. 

But  it  was  Anne  who  rose,  and  put  her  arms  about 
the  childless  woman,  and  kissed  and  comforted  her. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  said:  Thank  God  you  never  had 
one. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  rumour  which  was  going  the  round  of  the  clubs 
in  due  time  reached  Lady  Cayley  through  the 
Ransomes.  It  roused  in  her  many  violent  and  conflicting 
emotions. 

She  sat  trembling  in  the  Ransomes'  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  Ransome  had  just  asked  whether  there  was  any- 
thing in  it;  because  if  there  was,  she,  Mrs.  Ransome, 
washed  her  hands  of  her.  She  intimated  that  it  would 
take  a  good  deal  of  washing  to  get  Sarah  off  her  hands. 

Sarah  had  unveiled  the  face  of  horror,  the  face  of  out- 
raged virtue,  and  the  wrath  and  writhing  of  propriety 
wounded  in  the  uncertain,  quivering,  vital  spot.  During 
the  unveiling  Dick  Ransome  had  come  in.  He  wanted 
to  know  if  Topsy  had  been  bullying  poor  Toodles. 
Whereupon  Topsy  wept  feebly,  and  poor  Toodles  had  a 
moment  of  monstrous  calm. 

She  wanted  to  get  it  quite  clear,  to  make  no  mistake. 
They  might  as  well  give  her  the  details.  Majendie  had 
left  his  wife,  had  he?  Well,  she  wasn't  surprised  at  that. 
The  wonder  was  that,  having  married  her,  he  had  stuck 
to  her  so  long.  He  had  left  his  wife,  and  was  living  at 
Scarby,  was  he,  with  her?  Well,  she  only  wanted  to  get 
all  the  details  clear. 

At  this  Sarah  fell  into  a  fit  of  laughter  very  terrifying 
to  see.  Since  her  own  sister  wouldn't  take  her  word  for 
it,  she  supposed  she'd  have  to  prove  that  it  was  not  so. 

And,  under  the  horror  of  her  virtue  and  respectability, 

342 


The  Helpmate  343 

there  heaved  a  dull,  dumb  fury,  born  of  her  memory  that 
it  once  was,  her  belief  that  it  might  have  been  again, 
and  her  knowledge  that  it  was  not  so.  She  trembled, 
shaken  by  the  troubling  of  the  fire  that  ran  underground, 
the  immense,  unseen,  unliberated,  primeval  fire.  She  was 
no  longer  a  creature  of  sophistries,  hypocrisies,  and  wiles. 
She  was  the  large  woman  of  the  simple  earth,  welded  by 
the  dark,  unspiritual  flame. 

Dick  Ransome  turned  on  his  sister-in-law  a  pale,  puffy 
face  in  which  two  little  dark  eyes  twinkled  with  a  shrewd, 
gross  humour.  Nothing  could  possibly  have  pleased 
Dick  Ransome  more  than  an  exhibition  of  indignant  vir- 
tue, as  achieved  by  Sarah.  He  knew  a  great  deal  more 
about  Sarah  than  Mrs.  Ransome  knew,  or  than  Sarah 
knew  herself.  To  Dick  Ransome's  mind,  thus  illumined 
by  knowledge,  that  spectacle  swept  the  whole  range  of 
human  comedy.  He  sat  taking  in  all  the  entertainment 
it  presented ;  and,  when  it  was  all  over,  he  remarked 
quietly  that  Toodles  needn't  bother  about  her  proofs.  He 
had  got  them  too.  He  knew  that  it  was  not  so.  He 
could  tell  her  that  much,  but  he  wasn't  going  to  give 
Majendie  away.  No,  she  couldn't  get  any  more  out  of 
him  than  that. 

Sarah  smiled.  She  did  not  need  to  get  anything  more 
out  of  him.  She  had  her  proof;  or,  if  it  didn't  exactly 
amount  to  proof,  she  had  her  clue.  She  had  found  it 
long  ago ;  and  she  had  followed  it  up,  if  not  to  the  end, 
at  any  rate,  quite  far  enough.  She  reflected  that  Ma- 
jendie, like  the  dear  fool  he  always  was,  had  given  it  to 
her  himself,  five  years  ago. 

Men's  sins  take  care  of  themselves.  It  is  their  inno- 
cent good  deeds  that  start  the  hounds  of  destiny.  When, 
Majendie  sent  Maggie  Forrest's  handiwork  to  Mrs.  Ran- 


344  The  Helpmate 

some,  with  a  kind  note  recommending  the  little  embroid- 
eress,  by  that  innocent  good  deed  he  woke  the  sleeping 
dogs  of  destiny.  Mrs.  Ransome's  sister  had  tracked  poor 
Maggie  down  by  the  long  trail  of  her  beautiful  em- 
broidery. She  had  been  baffled  when  the  embroidered 
clue  broke  off.  Now,  after  three  years,  she  leaped  (and 
it  was  not  a  very  difficult  leap  for  Lady  Cay  ley)  to  the 
firm  conclusion.  Maggie  Forrest  and  her  art  had  disap- 
peared for  three  years ;  so,  at  perilous  intervals,  had  Ma- 
jendie;  therefore  they  had  disappeared  together. 

Sarah  did  not  like  the  look  in  Dick  Ransome's  eye. 
She  removed  herself  from  it  to  the  seclusion  of  her  bed- 
room. There  she  bathed  her  heated  face  with  toilette 
vinegar,  steadied  her  nerves  with  a  cigarette,  lay  down 
on  a  couch  and  rested,  and,  pure  from  passion,  revised 
the  situation  calmly.  She  was  an  eminently  practical, 
sensible  woman,  who  knew  the  facts  of  life,  and  knew, 
also,  how  to  turn  them  to  her  own  advantage. 

Seen  by  the  larger,  calmer  spirit  that  was  Sarah  now, 
the  situation  was  not  as  unpleasant  as  it  had  at  first  ap- 
peared. To  be  sure,  the  rumour  in  which  she  had  figured 
was  fatal  to  the  matrimonial  vision,  and  to  the  beautiful 
illusion  of  propriety  in  which  she  had  once  lived.  But 
Sarah  had  renounced  the  vision ;  she  had  abandoned  the 
pursuit  of  the  fugitive  propriety.  She  had  long  ago  seen 
through  the  illusion.  She  might  be  a  deceiver,  but  she 
had  no  power  to  hoodwink  her  own  indestructible  lu- 
cidity. Looking  back  on  her  life,  after  the  joyous  ro- 
mances of  her  youth,  the  years  had  passed  like  so  many 
funeral  processions,  each  bearing  some  pleasant  scandal 
to  its  burial.  Then  there  had  come  the  dreary  funeral- 
feast,  and  then  the  days  of  mournful  rehabilitation.  Oh, 
that  rehabilitation !  There  had  been  three  years  of  it. 


The  Helpmate  345 

Three  years  of  exhausting  struggle  for  a  position  in  so- 
ciety, three  years  of  crawling,  and  pushing,  and  scram- 
bling, and  climbing.  There  had  been  a  dubious  triumph. 
Then  six  years  of  respectable  futility,  ambiguous  court- 
ship, and  palpable  frustration.  After  all  that,  there 
was  something  flattering  in  the  thought  that,  at  forty- 
five,  she  should  yet  find  her  name  still  coupled  with  Wal- 
ter Majendie's  in  a  passionate  adventure. 

It  might  easily  have  been,  but  for  Walter's  imbecile, 
suicidal  devotion  to  his  wife.  He  had  got  nothing  out 
of  his  marriage.  Worse  than  nothing.  He  was  the 
laughing-stock  of  all  his  friends  who  were  in  the  secret; 
who  saw  him  grovelling  at  the  heels  of  a  disagreeable 
woman  who  had  made  him  conspicuous  by  her  aversion. 
Of  course,  it  might  easily  have  been. 

Sarah's  imagination  (for  she  had  an  imagination) 
drew  out  all  the  sweetness  that  there  was  for  it  in  that 
idea.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  sound,  prosaic  common- 
sense,  that  a  reputation  is  still  a  reputation,  all  the  more 
precious  if  somewhat  precariously  acquired ;  that,  though 
you  may  as  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb,  hanging 
is  very  poor  fun  when  for  years  you  have  seen  nothing  of 
sheep  or  lamb  either;  that,  in  short,  she  must  take  steps 
to  save  her  reputation. 

The  shortest  way  to  save  it  was  the  straight  way.  She 
would  go  straight  to  Mrs.  Majendie  with  her  proofs. 
Her  duty  to  herself  justified  the  somewhat  unusual  step. 
And,  more  than  her  duty,  Sarah  loved  a  scene.  She  loved 
to  play  with  other  people's  emotions  and  to  exhibit  her 
own.  She  wanted  to  see  how  Mrs.  Majendie  would  take 
it;  how  the  white-faced,  high-handed  lady  would  look 
when  she  was  told  that  her  husband  had  consoled  him- 
self for  her  high-handedness.  She  had  always  been  pos- 


346  The  Helpmate 

sessed  by  an  ungovernable  curiosity  with  regard  to  Ma- 
jendie's  wife. 

She  did  not  know  Majendie's  wife,  but  she  knew  Ma- 
jendie.  She  knew  all  about  the  separation  and  its  cause. 
That  was  where  she  had  come  in.  She  divined  that  Mrs. 
Majendie  had  never  forgiven  her  husband  for  his  old 
intimacy  with  her.  It  was  Mrs.  Majendie's  jealousy  that 
had  driven  him  out  of  the  house,  into  the  arms  of  pretty 
Maggie.  Where,  she  wondered,  would  Mrs.  Majendie's 
jealousy  of  pretty  Maggie  drive  him? 

Though  Sarah  knew  Majendie,  that  was  more  than  she 
would  undertake  to  say.  But  the  more  she  thought  about 
it,  the  more  she  wondered;  and  the  more  she  wondered, 
the  more  she  desired  to  know. 

She  wondered  whether  Mrs.  Majendie  had  heard  the 
report.  From  all  she  could  gather,  it  was  hardly  likely. 
Neither  Mrs.  Majendie  nor  her  friends  mixed  in  those 
circles  where  it  went  the  round.  The  scandal  of  the  clubs 
and  of  the  Park  would  never  reach  her  in  the  high  se- 
clusion of  the  house  in  Prior  Street. 

Into  that  house  Lady  Cayley  could  not  hope  to  pene- 
trate except  by  guile.  Once  admitted,  straightforward- 
ness would  be  her  method.  She  must  not  attempt  to  give 
the  faintest  social  colour  to  her  visit.  She  must  take  for 
granted  Mrs.  Majendie's  view  of  her  impossibility.  To 
be  sure  Mrs.  Majendie's  prejudices  were  moral  even 
more  than  social.  But  moral  prejudice  could  be  over- 
come by  cleverness  working  towards  a  formidable  moral 
effect. 

She  would  call  after  six  o'clock,  an  hour  incompatible 
with  any  social  intention.  An  hour  when  she  would 
probably  find  Mrs.  Majendie  alone. 

She  rested  all  afternoon.    At  five  o'clock  she  fortified 


The  Helpmate  347 

herself  with  strong  tea  and  brandy.  Then  she  made  an 
elaborate  and  thoughtful  toilette. 

At  forty-five  Sarah's  face  was  very  large  and  horribly 
white.  She  restored,  discreetly,  delicately,  the  vanished 
rose.  The  beautiful,  flower-like  edges  of  her  mouth  were 
blurred.  With  a  thin  thread  of  rouge  she  retraced  the 
once  perfect  outline.  Wrinkles  had  drawn  in  the  cor- 
ners of  the  indomitable  eyes,  and  ill-health  had  dulled 
their  blue.  That  saddest  of  all  changes  she  repaired  by 
hand-massage,  pomade,  and  belladonna.  The  somewhat 
unrefined  exuberance  of  her  figure  she  laced  in  an  inim- 
itable corset.  Next  she  arrayed  herself  in  a  suit  of  dark 
blue  cloth,  simple  and  severely  reticent;  in  a  white  silk 
blouse,  simpler  still,  sewn  with  innocent  daisies,  Maggie's 
handiwork ;  in  a  hat,  gay  in  form,  austere  in  colour ;  and 
in  gloves  of  immaculate  whiteness. 

Nobody  could  have  possessed  a  more  irreproachable 
appearance  than  Lady  Cayley  when  she  set  out  for  Prior 
Street. 

At  the  door  she  gave  neither  name  nor  card.  She  an- 
nounced herself  as  a  lady  who  desired  to  see  Mrs.  Majen- 
die  for  a  moment  on  important  business. 

Kate  wondered  a  little,  and  admitted  her.  Ladies  did 
call  sometimes  on  important  business,  ladies  who  ap- 
proached Mrs.  Majendie  on  missions  of  charity;  and 
these  did  not  always  give  their  names. 

Anne  was  upstairs  in  the  nursery,  superintending  the 
packing  of  Peggy's  little  trunk.  She  was  taking  her 
away  to-morrow  to  the  seaside,  by  Dr.  Gardner's  orders. 
She  supposed  that  the  nameless  lady  would  be  some  ear- 
nest, beneficent  person  connected  with  a  case  for  her  Res- 
cue Committee,  who  might  have  excellent  reasons  for  not 
announcing  herself  by  name. 


348  The  Helpmate 

And,  at  first,  coming  into  the  low-lit  drawing-room, 
she  did  not  recognise  her  visitor.  She  advanced  inno- 
cently, in  her  perfect  manner,  with  a  charming  smile  and 
an  appropriate  apology. 

The  smile  died  with  a  sudden  rigour  of  repulsion.  She 
paused  before  seating  herself,  as  an  intimation  that  the 
occasion  was  not  one  that  could  be  trusted  to  explain 
itself.  Lady  Cayley  rose  to  it. 

"Forgive  me  for  calling  at  this  unconventional  hour, 
Mrs.  Majendie." 

Mrs.  Majendie's  silence  implied  that  she  could  not  for- 
give her  for  calling  at  any  hour.  Lady  Cayley  smiled 
inimitably. 

"I  wanted  to  find  you  at  home." 

"You  did  not  give  me  your  name,  Lady  Cayley." 

Their  eyes  crossed  like  swords  before  the  duel. 

"I  didn't,  Mrs.  Majendie,  because  I  wanted  to  find  you 
at  home.  I  can't  help  being  unconventional " 

Mrs.  Majendie  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"It's  my  nature." 

Mrs.  Majendie  dropped  her  eyelids,  as  much  as  to  say 
that  the  nature  of  Lady  Cayley  did  not  interest  her. 

" — And  I've  come  on  a  most  unconventional  errand." 

"Do  you  mean  an  unpleasant  one?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,  rather.  And  it's  just  as  unpleasant 
for  me  as  it  is  for  you.  Have  you  any  idea,  Mrs.  Ma- 
jendie, why  I've  been  obliged  to  come?  It'll  make  it 
easier  for  me  if  you  have." 

"I  assure  you  I  have  none.  I  cannot  conceive  why  you 
have  come,  nor  how  I  can  make  anything  easier  for  you." 

"I  think  I  mean — it  would  have  made  it  easier  for 
you." 

"Forme?" 


The  Helpmate  349 

"Well — it  would  have  spared  you  some  painful  expla- 
nations." Sarah  felt  herself  sincere.  She  really  desired 
to  spare  Mrs.  Majendie.  The  part  which  she  had  re- 
hearsed with  such  ease  in  her  own  bedroom  was  impos- 
sible in  Mrs.  Majendie's  drawing-room.  She  was 
charmed  by  the  spirit  of  the  place,  constrained  by  its 
suggestion  of  fair  observances,  high  decencies,  and  social 
suavities.  She  could  not  sit  there  and  tell  Mrs.  Majendie 
that  her  husband  had  been  unfaithful  to  her.  You  do  not 
say  these  things.  And  so  subdued  was  Sarah  that  she 
found  a  certain  relief  in  the  reflection  that,  by  clearing 
herself,  she  would  clear  Majendie. 

"I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  you  want  to  say  to 
me/'  said  Mrs.  Majendie.  "But  I  would  rather  take 
everything  for  granted  than  have  any  explanations." 

"If  I  thought  you  would  take  my  innocence  for 
granted " 

"Your  innocence?  I  should  be  a  bad  judge  of  it,  Lady 
Cayley." 

"Quite  so."  Lady  Cayley  smiled  again,  and  again 
inimitably.  (It  was  extraordinary,  the  things  she  took 
for  granted.)  "That's  why  I've  come  to  explain." 

"One  moment.  Perhaps  I  am  mistaken.  But,  if  you 
are  referring  to — to  what  happened  in  the  past,  there 
need  be  no  explanation.  I  have  put  all  that  out  of  my 
mind  now.  I  have  heard  that  you,  too,  have  left  it 
far  behind  you ;  and  I  am  willing  to  believe  it.  There  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

There  was  such  a  sweetness  and  dignity  in  Mrs.  Ma- 
jendie's voice  and  manner  that  Lady  Cayley  was  further 
moved  to  compete  in  dignity  and  sweetness.  She  sup- 
pressed the  smile  that  ignored  so  much  and  took  so  much 
for  granted. 


350  The  Helpmate 

"Unfortunately  a  great  deal  more  has  been  said.  Your 
husband  is  an  intimate  friend  of  my  sister,  Mrs.  Ran- 
some,  as  of  course  you  know." 

Mrs.  Majendie's  face  denied  all  knowledge  of  the  in- 
timacy. 

"I  might  have  met  him  at  her  house  a  hundred  times, 
but,  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Majendie,  that,  since  his  mar- 
riage, I  have  not  met  him  more  than  twice,  anywhere. 
The  first  time  was  at  the  Hannays'.  You  were  there. 
You  saw  all  that  passed  between  us." 

"Well?" 

"The  second  time  was  at  the  Hannays',  too.  Mrs. 
Hannay  was  with  us  all  the  time.  What  do  you  suppose 
he  talked  to  me  about  ?  His  child.  He  talked  about  noth- 
ing else." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Majendie  coldly,  "there  was 
nothing  else  to  talk  about." 

"No — but  it  was  so  dear  and  na'if  of  him."  She  pon- 
dered on  his  naivete  with  down-dropped  eyes  whose  lids 
sheltered  the  irresponsibly  hilarious  blue. 

"He  talked  about  his  child — your  child — to  me.  I 
hadn't  seen  him  for  two  years,  and  that's  all  he  could 
talk  about.  /  had  to  sit  and  listen  to  that." 

"It  wouldn't  hurt  you,  Lady  Cayley." 

"It  didn't — and  I'm  sure  the  little  girl  is  charming — 
only — it  was  so  delicious  of  your  husband,  don't  you 
see  ?" 

Her  face  curled  all  over  with  its  soft  and  sensual 
smile. 

"If  we'd  been  two  babes  unborn  there  couldn't  have 
been  a  more  innocent  conversation." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  since  that  night  we  haven't  seen  each  other  for 


The  Helpmate  351 

more  than  five  years.  Ask  him  if  it  isn't  true.  Ask  Mrs. 
Hannay " 

"Lady  Cayley,  I  do  not  doubt  your  word — nor  my 
husband's  honour.  I  can't  think  why  you're  giving  your- 
self all  this  trouble." 

"Why,  because  they're  saying  now " 

Mrs.  Majendie  rose.  "Excuse  me,  if  you've  only  come 
to  tell  me  what  people  are  saying,  it  is  useless.  I  never 
listen  to  what  people  say." 

"It  isn't  likely  they'd  say  it  to  you." 

"Then  why  should  you  say  it  to  me?" 

"Because  it  concerns  my  reputation." 

"Forgive  me,  but — your  reputation  does  not  concern 
me." 

"And  how  about  your  husband's  reputation,  Mrs. 
Majendie?" 

"My  husband's  reputation  can  take  care  of  itself." 

"Not  in  Scale." 

"There's  no  more  scandal  talked  in  Scale  than  in  any 
other  place.  I  never  pay  any  attention  to  it." 

"That's  all  very  well — but  you  must  defend  yourself 
sometimes.  And  when  it  comes  to  saying  that  I've  been 
living  with  Mr.  Majendie  in  Scarby  for  the  last  three 
years " 

Mrs.  Majendie  was  so  calm  that  Lady  Cayley  fancied 
that,  after  all,  this  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  heard 
that  rumour. 

"Let  them  say  it,"  said  she.    "Nobody'll  believe  it." 

"Everybody  believes  it.  I  came  to  you  because  I  was 
afraid  you'd  be  the  first." 

"To  believe  it?  I  assure  you,  Lady  Cayley,  I  should 
be  the  last." 

"What  was  to  prevent  you?     You  didn't  know  me." 


352  The  Helpmate 

"No.     But  I  know  my  husband." 

"So  do  I." 

"Not  now,"  said  Mrs.  Majendie  quietly. 

Lady  Cayley's  bosom  heaved.  She  had  felt  that  she 
had  risen  to  the  occasion.  She  had  achieved  a  really 
magnificent  renunciation.  With  almost  suicidal  generos- 
ity, she  had  handed  Majendie  over  intact,  as  it  were,  to 
his  insufferable  wife.  She  was  wounded  in  several  very 
sensitive  places  by  the  married  woman's  imperious  denial 
of  her  part  in  him,  by  her  attitude  of  indestructible  and 
unique  possession.  If  she  didn't  know  him  she  would 
like  to  know  who  did.  But  up  till  now  she  had  meant  to 
spare  Mrs.  Majendie  her  knowledge  of  him,  for  she  was 
not  ill-natured.  She  was  sorry  for  the  poor,  inept,  un- 
happy prude. 

Even  now,  seated  in  Mrs.  Majendie's  drawing-room, 
she  had  no  impulse  to  wound  her  mortally.  Her  instinct 
was  rather  to  patronise  and  pity,  to  unfold  the  long  re- 
sult of  a  superior  experience,  to  instruct  this  woman  who 
was  so  incompetent  to  deal  with  men,  who  had  spoiled, 
stupidly,  her  husband's  life  and  her  own.  In  that  mo- 
ment Sarah  contemplated  nothing  more  outrageous  than 
a  little  straight  talk  with  Mrs.  Majendie. 

"Look  here,  Mrs.  Majendie,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of 
finely  ungovernable  impulse,  "you're  a  saint.  You  know 
no  more  about  men  than  your  little  girl  does.  I'm  not 
a  saint,  I'm  a  woman  of  the  world.  I  think  I've  had  a 
rather  larger  experience  of  men " 

Mrs.  Majendie  cut  her  short. 

"I  do  not  want  to  hear  anything  about  your  expe- 
rience." 

"Dear  lady,  you  shan't  hear  anything  about  it.  I  was 
only  going  to  tell  you  that,  of  all  the  men  I've  known, 


The  Helpmate  353 

there's  nobody  I  know  better  than  your  husband.  My 
knowledge  of  him  is  probably  a  little  different  from 
yours." 

"That  I  can  well  believe." 

"You  mean  you  think  I  wouldn't  know  a  good  man 
if  I  saw  one?  My  experience  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that. 
I  can  tell  a  good  woman  when  I  see  one,  too.  You're  a 
good  woman,  Mrs.  Majendie,  and  I've  no  doubt  that 
you've  been  told  I'm  a  bad  one.  All  I  can  say  is,  that 
Walter  Majendie  was  a  good  man  when  /  first  knew  him. 
He  was  a  good  man  when  he  left  me  and  married  you. 
So  my  badness  can't  have  hurt  him  very  much.  If  he's 
gone  wrong  now,  it's  that  goodness  of  yours  that's  done 
it." 

Anne's  lips  turned  white,  but  their  muscles  never 
moved.  And  the  woman  who  watched  her  wondered  in 
what  circumstances  Mrs.  Majendie  would  display  emo- 
tion, if  she  did  not  display  it  now. 

"What  right  have  you  to  say  these  things  to 
me?" 

"I've  a  right  to  say  a  good  deal  more.  Your  husband 
was  very  fond  of  me.  He  would  have  married  me  if  his 
friends  hadn't  come  and  bullied  me  to  give  him  up  for 
the  good  of  his  morals.  I  loved  him "  She  sug- 
gested by  an  adroit  shrug  of  her  shoulders  that  her  love 
was  a  thing  that  Mrs.  Majendie  could  either  take  for 
granted  or  ignore.  She  didn't  expect  her  to  understand 
it — "And  I  gave  him  up.  I'm  not  a  cold-blooded  woman ; 
and  it  was  pretty  hard  for  me.  But  I  did  it.  And"  (she 
faced  her)  "what  was  the  good  of  it?  Which  of  us  has 
been  the  best  for  his  morals  ?  You  or  me  ?  He  lived  with 
me  two  years,  and  he  married  you,  and  everybody  said 
how  virtuous  and  proper  he  was.  Well,  he's  been  mar- 


354  The  Helpmate 

ried  to  you  for  nine  years,  and  he's  been  living  with  an- 
other woman  for  the  last  three." 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  it;  for  (in  the  presence  of 
the  social  sanctities)  you  do  not  say  these  things.  But 
flesh  and  blood  are  stronger  than  all  the  social  sanctities ; 
and  flesh  and  blood  had  risen  and  claimed  their  old  do- 
minion over  Sarah.  The  unspeakable  depths  in  her  had 
been  stirred  by  her  vision  of  the  things  that  might  have 
been.  She  was  filled  with  a  passionate  hatred  of  the 
purity  which  had  captured  Majendie,  and  drawn  him 
from  her,  and  made  her  seem  vile  in  his  sight.  She  re- 
joiced in  her  power  to  crush  it,  to  confront  it  with  the 
proof  of  its  own  futility. 

"I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Mrs.  Majendie. 

"Of  course  you  don't  believe  it.  You're  a  good 
woman."  She  shook  her  meditative  head.  "The  sort 
of  woman  who  can  live  with  a  man  for  nine  years  with- 
out seeing  what  he's  like.  If  you'd  understood  your 
husband  as  well  as  I  do,  you'd  have  known  that  he 
couldn't  run  his  life  on  your  lines  for  six  months,  let 
alone  nine  years." 

Mrs.  Majendie's  chin  rose,  as  if  she  were  lifting  her 
face  above  the  reach  of  the  hand  that  had  tried  to  strike 
it.  Her  voice  throbbed  on  one  deep  monotonous  note. 

"I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  what  you  say.  And  I  can- 
not think  what  your  motive  is  in  saying  it." 

"Don't  worry  about  my  motive.  It  ought  to  be  pretty 
clear.  Let  me  tell  you — you  can  bring  your  husband  back 
to-morrow,  and  you  can  keep  him  to  the  end  of  time,  if 
you  choose,  Mrs.  Majendie.  Or  you  can  lose  him  alto- 
gether. And  you  will,  if  you  go  on  as  you're  doing.  If 
I  were  you,  I  should  make  up  my  mind  whether  it's  good 
enough.  I  shouldn't  think  it  was,  myself." 


The  Helpmate  355 

Mrs.  Majendie  was  silent.  She  tried  to  think  of  some 
word  that  would  end  the  intolerable  interview.  Her  lips 
parted  to  speak,  but  her  thoughts  died  in  her  brain  un- 
born. 

She  felt  her  face  turning-  white  under  the  woman's 
face ;  it  hypnotised  her ;  it  held  her  dumb. 

"Don't  you  worry,"  said  Lady  Cayley  soothingly. 
"You  can  get  your  husband  back  from  that  woman  to- 
morrow, if  you  choose."  She  smiled.  "Do  you  see  my 
motive  now?" 

Lady  Cayley  had  not  seen  it;  but  she  had  seen  herself 
for  one  beautiful  moment  as  the  benignant  and  inspired 
conciliator.  She  desired  Mrs.  Majendie  to  see  her  so. 
She  had  gratified  her  more  generous  instincts  in  giving 
the  unfortunate  lady  "the  straight  tip."  She  knew,  per- 
fectly well,  that  Mrs.  Majendie  wouldn't  take  it.  She 
knew,  all  the  time,  that  whatever  else  her  revelation  did, 
it  would  not  move  Mrs.  Majendie  to  charm  her  husband 
back.  She  could  not  say  precisely  what  it  would  do. 
Used  to  live  solely  in  the  voluptuous  moment,  she  had  no 
sense  of  drama  beyond  the  scene  she  played  in. 

"Your  motive,"  said  Mrs.  Majendie,  "is  of  no  impor- 
tance. No  motive  could  excuse  you." 

"You  think  not."  She  rose  and  looked  down  on  the 
motionless  woman.  "I've  told  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Ma- 
jendie, because,  sooner  or  later,  you'd  have  had  to  know 
it ;  and  other  people  would  have  told  you  worse 
things  that  aren't  true.  You  can  take  it  from  me 
that  there's  nothing  more  to  tell.  I've  told  you  the 
worst." 

"You've  told  me,  and  I  do  not  believe  it." 

"You'd  better  believe  it.  But,  if  you  really  don't,  you 
can  ask  your  husband.  Ask  him  where  he  goes  to  every 


356  The  Helpmate 

week  in,  that  yacht  of  his.  Ask  him  what's  become  of 
Maggie  Forrest,  the  pretty  work-girl  who  made  the  em- 
broidered frock  for  Mrs,  Ransome's  little  girl.  Tell  him 
you  want  one  like  it  for  your  little  girl ;  and  see  what  he 
looks  like." 

Anne  rose  too.  Her  faint  white  face  frightened  Lady 
Cayley.  She  had  wondered  how  Mrs.  Majendie  would 
look  if  she  told  her  the  truth  about  her  husband.  Now 
she  knew. 

"My  dear  lady,"  said  she,  "what  on  earth  did  you  ex- 
pect?" 

Anne  went  blindly  towards  the  chimney-piece  where 
the  bell  was.  Lady  Cayley  also  turned.  She  meant  to 
go,  but  not  just  yet. 

"One  moment,  Mrs.  Majendie,  please,  before  you  turn 
me  out.  I  wouldn't  break  my  heart  about  it,  if  I  were 
you.  He  might  have  done  worse  things." 

"He  has  done  nothing." 

"Well — not  much.  He  has  done  what  I've  told  you. 
But,  after  all,  what's  that?" 

"Nothing  to  you,  Lady  Cayley,  certainly,"  said  Anne, 
as  she  rang  the  bell. 

She  moved  slowly  towards  the  door.  Lady  Cayley 
followed  to  the  threshold,  and  laid  her  hand  delicately 
on  the  jamb  of  the  door  as  Mrs.  Majendie  opened  it. 
She  raised  to  her  set  face  the  tender  eyes  of  a 
suppliant. 

"Mrs.  Majendie,"  said  she,  "don't  be  hard  on  poor 
Wallie.  He's  never  been  hard  on  you.  He  might  have 
been."  The  latch  sprang  to  under  her  gentle  pressure. 
"Look  at  it  this  way.  He  has  kept  all  his  marriage  vows 
— except  one.  You've  broken  all  yours — except  one. 
None  of  your  friends  will  tell  you  that.  That's  why  / 


The  Helpmate  357 

tell  you.  Because  I'm  not  a  good  woman,  and  I  don't 
count." 

She  moved  her  hand  from  the  door.  It  opened  wide, 
and  Lady  Cayley  walked  serenely  out. 

She  had  said  her  say. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ANNE  sat  in  her  chair  by  the  fireside,  very  still.  She 
had  turned  out  the  light,  for  it  hurt  her  eyes  and 
made  her  head  ache.  She  had  felt  very  weak,  and  her 
knees  shook  under  her  as  she  crossed  the  room.  Beyond 
that  she  felt  nothing,  no  amazement,  no  sorrow,  no  anger, 
nor  any  sort  of  pang.  If  she  had  been  aware  of  the 
trembling  of  her  body,  she  would  have  attributed  it  to 
the  agitation  of  a  disagreeable  encounter.  She  shivered. 
She  thought  there  was  a  draught  somewhere ;  but  she  did 
not  rouse  herself  to  shut  the  window. 

At  eight  o'clock  a  telegram  from  Majendie  was  brought 
to  her.  She  was  not  to  wait  dinner.  He  would  not  be 
home  that  night.  She  gave  the  message  in  a  calm  voice, 
and  told  Kate  not  to  send  up  dinner.  She  had  a  bad 
headache  and  could  not  eat  anything. 

Kate  had  stood  by  waiting  timidly.  She  had  had  a 
sense  of  things  happening.  Now  she  retired  with  curi- 
osity relieved.  Kate  was  used  to  her  mistress's  bad  head- 
aches. A  headache  needed  no  explanation.  It  explained 
everything. 

Anne  picked  up  the  telegram  and  read  it  over  again. 
Every  week,  for  nearly  three  years,  she  had  received 
these  messages.  They  had  always  been  sent  from  the 
same  post  office  in  Scale,  and  the  words  had  always  been 
the  same:  "Don't  wait.  May  not  be  home  to-night." 

To-night  the  telegram  struck  her  as  a  new  thing.  It 
stood  for  something  new.  But  all  the  other  telegrams 

358 


The  Helpmate  359 

had  meant  the  same  thing.  Not  a  new  thing.  A  thing 
that  had  been  going  on  for  three  years;  four,  five,  six 
years,  for  all  she  knew.  It  was  six  years  since  their  sep- 
aration ;  and  that  had  been  his  wish. 

She  had  always  known  it;  and  she  had  always  put 
her  knowledge  away  from  her,  tried  not  to  know  more. 
Her  friends  had  known  it  too.  Canon  Wharton,  and 
the  Gardners,  and  Fanny.  It  all  came  back  to  her,  the 
words,  and  the  looks  that  had  told  her  more  than  any 
words,  signs  that  she  had  often  wondered  at  and  refused 
to  understand.  They  had  known  all  the  depths  of  it.  It 
was  only  the  other  day  that  Fanny  had  offered  her  house 
to  her  as  a  refuge  from  her  own  house  in  its  shame. 
Fanny  had  supposed  that  it  must  come  to  that. 

God  knew  she  had  been  loyal  to  him  in  the  beginning. 
She  had  closed  her  eyes.  She  had  forbidden  her  senses 
to  take  evidence  against  him.  She  had  been  loyal  all 
through,  loyal  to  the  very  end.  She  had  lied  for  him. 
If,  indeed,  she  had  lied.  In  denying  Lady  Cayley's  state- 
ments, she  had  denied  her  right  to  make  them,  that 
was  all. 

Her  mind,  active  now,  went  backwards  and  forwards 
over  the  chain  of  evidence,  testing  each  link  in  turn.  All 
held.  It  was  all  true.  She  had  always  known  it. 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  and  Peggy  would  be 
going  away  to-morrow.  That  was  well.  It  was  the  best 
thing  she  could  do.  Later  on,  when  they  were  home 
again,  it  would  be  time  enough  to  make  up  her  mind  as 
to  what  she  could  do.  If  there  was  anything  to  be  done. 

Until  then  she  would  not  see  him.  They  would  be  gone 
to-morrow  before  he  could  come  home.  Unless  he  saw 
them  off  at  the  station.  She  would  avoid  that  by  taking 
an  earlier  train.  Then  she  would  write  to  him.  No;  she 


360  The  Helpmate 

would  not  write.  What  they  would  have  to  say  to  each 
other  must  be  said  face  to  face.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  would  say. 

She  dragged  herself  upstairs  to  the  nursery,  where 
the  packing  had  been  begun.  The  room  was  empty. 
Nanna  had  gone  down  to  her  supper. 

Anne's  heart  melted.  Peggy  had  been  playing  at  pack- 
ing. The  little  lamb  had  gathered  together  on  the  table 
a  heap  of  her  beloved  toys,  things  which  it  would  have 
broken  her  heart  to  part  from. 

Her  little  trunk  lay  open  on  the  floor,  packed  already. 
The  embroidered  frock  lay  uppermost,  carefully  folded, 
not  to  be  crushed.  At  the  sight  of  it  Anne's  brain  flared 
in  anger. 

A  bright  fire  burned  in  the  grate.  She  picked  up  the 
frock;  she  took  a  pair  of  scissors  and  cut  it  in  several 
places  at  the  neck,  then  tore  it  to  pieces  with  strong, 
determined  hands.  She  threw  the  tatters  on  the  fire ;  she 
watched  them  consume;  she  raked  out  their  ashes  with 
the  tongs,  and  tore  them  again.  Then  she  packed  Peggy's 
toys  tenderly  in  the  little  trunk,  her  heart  melting  over 
them.  She  closed  the  lid  of  the  trunk,  strapped  it,  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

Then,  crawling  on  slow,  quiet  feet,  she  went  to  bed. 
Undressing  vexed  her.  She,  once  so  careful  and  punc- 
tilious, slipped  her  clothes  like  a  tired  Magdalen,  and  let 
them  fall,  from  her  and  lie  where  they  fell.  Her  night- 
gown gaped  unbuttoned  at  her  throat.  Her  long  hair 
lay  scattered  on  her  pillow,  unbrushed,  unbraided.  Her 
white  face  stared  to  the  ceiling.  She  was  too  spent  to 
pray. 

When  she  lay  down,  reality  gripped  her.  And,  with 
it,  her  imagination  rose  up,  a  thing  no  longer  crude,  but 


The  Helpmate  361 

full-grown,  large-eyed,  and  powerful.  It  possessed  itself 
of  her  tragedy.  She  had  lain  thus,  nearly  nine  years  ago, 
in  that  room  at  Scarby,  thinking  terrible  thoughts.  Now 
she  saw  terrible  things. 

Peggy  stirred  in  her  sleep,  and  crept  from  her  cot  into 
her  mother's  bed. 

"Mummy,  I'm  so  frightened." 

"What  is  it,  darling?    Have  you  had  a  little  dream?" 

"No.    Mummy,  let  me  stay  in  your  bed." 

Anne  let  her  stay,  glad  of  the  comfort  of  the  little  warm 
body,  and  afraid  to  vex  the  child.  She  drew  the  blankets 
round  her.  "There,"  she  said,  "go  to  sleep,  pet." 

But  Peggy  was  in  no  mind  to  sleep. 

"Mummy,  your  hair's  all  loose,"  she  said ;  and  her  rin- 
gers began  playing  with  her  mother's  hair. 

"Mummy,  where's  daddy?    Is  he  in  his  little  bed?" 

"He's  away,  darling.    Go  to  sleep." 

"Why  does  he  go  away?    Is  he  coming  back  again?" 

"Yes,  darling."    Anne's  voice  shook. 

"Mummy,  did  you  cry  when  Auntie  Edie  went  away  ?" 

Anne  kissed  her. 

"Auntie  Edie's  dead." 

"Lie  still,  darling,  and  let  mother  go  to  sleep." 

Peggy  lay  still,  and  Anne  went  on  thinking. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  She  would  have  to  take 
him  back  again,  always.  Whatever  shame  he  dragged 
her  through,  she  must  take  him  back  again,  for  the  child's 
sake. 

Suddenly  she  remembered  Peggy's  birthday.  It  was 
only  last  week.  Surely  she  had  not  known  then.  She 
must  have  forgotten  for  a  time. 

Then  tenderness  came,  and  with  it  an  intolerable  an- 
guish. She  was  smitten  and  was  melted;  she  was  torn 


362  The  Helpmate 

and  melted  again.  Her  throat  was  shaken,  convulsed ; 
then  her  bosom,  then  her  whole  body.  She  locked  her 
teeth,  lest  her  sobs  should  break  through  and  wake  the 
child. 

She  lay  thus  tormented,  till  a  memory,  sharper  than 
imagination,  stung  her.  She  saw  her  husband  carrying 
the  sleeping  child,  and  his  face  bending  over  her  with  that 
look  of  love.  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  let  the  tears  rain 
down  her  hot  cheeks  and  fall  upon  her  breast  and  in  her 
hair.  She  tried  to  stifle  the  sobs  that  strangled  her,  and 
she  choked.  That  instant  the  child's  lips  were  on  her 
face,  tasting  her  tears. 

"Oh,  mummy,  you're  crying." 

"No,  my  pet.    Go  to  sleep." 

"Why  are  you  crying?" 

Anne  made  no  sound;  and  Peggy  cried  out  in 
terror. 

"Mummy — is  daddy  dead?" 

Anne  folded  her  in  her  arms. 

"No,  my  pet,  no." 

"He  is,  mummy,  I  know  he  is.    Daddy !    Daddy !" 

If  Majendie  had  been  in  the  house  she  would  have 
carried  the  child  into  his  room,  and  shown  him  to  her, 
and  relieved  her  of  her  terror.  She  had  done  that  once 
before  when  she  had  cried  for  him. 

But  now  Peggy  cried  persistently,  vehemently;  not 
loud,  but  in  an  agony  that  tore  and  tortured  her  as  she 
had  seen  her  mother  torn  and  tortured.  She  cried  till 
she  was  sick;  and  still  her  sobs  shook  her,  with  a  sharp 
mechanical  jerk  that  would  not  cease. 

Gradually  she  grew  drowsy  and  fell  asleep. 

All  night  Anne  lay  awake  beside  her,  driven  to  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  that  she  might  give  breathing  space  to  the 


The  Helpmate  363 

little  body  that  pushed,  closer  and  closer,  to  the  warm 
place  she  made. 

Towards  dawn  Peggy  sighed  three  times,  and  stretched 
her  limbs,  as  if  awakening  out  of  her  sleep. 

Then  Anne  turned,  and  laid  her  hands  on  the  dead  body 
of  her  child. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  yacht  had  lain  all  night  in  Fawlness  creek. 
Majendie  had  slept  on  board.  He  had  sent  Steve 
up  to  the  farm  with  a  message  for  Maggie.  He  had  told 
her  not  to  expect  him  that  night.  He  would  call  and 
see  her  very  early  in  the  morning.  That  would  prepare 
her  for  the  end.  In  the  morning  he  would  call  and  say 
good-bye  to  her. 

He  had  taken  that  resolution  on  the  night  when  Gard- 
ner had  told  him  about  Peggy. 

He  did  not  sleep.  He  heard  all  the  sounds  of  the  land, 
of  the  river,  of  the  night,  and  of  the  dawn.  He  heard 
the  lapping  of  the  creek  water  against  the  yacht's  side; 
the  wash  of  the  steamers  passing  on  the  river;  the  stir 
of  wild  fowl  at  daybreak;  the  swish  of  wind  and  water 
among  the  reeds  and  grasses  of  the  creek. 

All  night  he  thought  of  Peggy,  who  would  not  live, 
who  was  the  child  of  her  father's  passion  and  her  mother's 
grief. 

At  dawn  he  got  up.  It  was  a  perfect  day,  with  the 
promise  of  warmth  in  it.  Over  land  and  water  the  white 
mist  was  lifting  and  drifting,  eastwards  towards  the  risen 
sun.  Inland,  over  the  five  fields,  the  drops  of  fallen  mist 
glittered  on  the  grass.  The  Farm,  guarded  by  its  three 
elms,  showed  clear,  and  red,  and  still,  as  if  painted  under 
an  unchanging  light.  A  few  leaves,  loosened  by  the 
damp,  were  falling  with  a  shivering  sound  against  the 
house  wall,  and  lay  where  they  fell,  yellow  on  the  red- 
brick path. 

364 


The  Helpmate  365 

Maggie  was  not  at  the  garden  gate.  She  sat  crouched 
inside,  by  the  fender,  kindling  a  fire.  Tea  had  been  made 
and  was  standing  on  the  table.  She  was  waiting. 

She  rose,  with  a  faint  cry,  as  Majendie  entered.  She 
put  her  arms  on  his  shoulders  in  her  old  way.  He  loos- 
ened her  hands  gently  and  held  her  by  them,  keeping  her 
from  him  at  arm's  length.  Her  hands  were  cold,  her 
eyes  had  foreknowledge  of  the  end ;  but,  moved  by  his 
touch,  her  mouth  curled  unaware  and  shaped  itself  for 
kissing. 

He  did  not  kiss  her.    And  she  knew. 

Upstairs  in  the  bedroom  overhead,  Steve  and  his  mother 
moved  heavily.  There  was  a  sound  of  drawers  opening 
and  shutting,  then  a  grating  sound.  Something  was  being 
dragged  from  under  the  bed.  Maggie  knew  that  they 
were  packing  Majendie's  portmanteau  with  the  things  he 
had  left  behind  him. 

They  stood  together  by  the  hearth,  where  the  fire  kin- 
dled feebly.  He  thrust  out  his  foot,  and  struck  the  wood- 
pile; it  fell  and  put  out  the  flame  that  was  struggling 
to  be  born. 

"I'm  sorry,  Maggie,"  he  said. 

Maggie  stooped  and  built  up  the  pile  again  and  kindled 
it.  She  knelt  there,  patient  and  humble,  waiting  for  the 
fire  to  burn. 

He  did  not  know  whether  he  was  going  to  have  trouble 
with  her.  He  was  afraid  of  her  tenderness. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  last  night?"  she  said. 

"I  couldn't." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  said,  "That  is  not 
true." 

"You  couldn't?" 

"I  couldn't." 


366  The  Helpmate 

"You  came  last  week." 

"Last  week — yes.  But  since  then  things  have  hap- 
pened, do  you  see?" 

"Things  have  happened,"  she  repeated,  under  her 
breath. 

"Yes.    My  little  girl  is  very  ill." 

"Peggy?"  she  cried,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  Then  with  her  hands  she  made  a  gesture  that 
swept  calamity  aside.  Maggie  would  only  believe  what 
she  wanted. 

"She  will  get  better,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps.    But  I  must  be  with  my  wife." 

"You  weren't  with  her  last  night,"  said  Maggie.  "You 
could  have  come  then." 

"No,  Maggie,  I  couldn't." 

"D'you  mean — because  of  the  little  girl  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  see,"  she  said  softly.    She  had  understood. 

"She  will  get  better,"  she  said,  "and  then  you  can  come 
again." 

"No.    I've  told  you.    I  must  be  with  my  wife." 

"I  thought "  said  Maggie. 

"Never  mind  what  you  thought,"  he  said  with  a  quick, 
fierce  impatience. 

"Are  you  fond  of  her?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"You  know  I  am,"  he  said;  and  his  voice  was  kind 
again.  "You've  known  it  all  the  time.  I  told  you  that 
in  the  beginning." 

"But — since  then,"  said  Maggie,  "you've  been  fond 
of  me,  haven't  you?" 

"It's  not  the  same  thing.  I've  told  you  that,  too,  a  great 
many  times.  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it.  It's  different." 

"How  is  it  different?" 


The  Helpmate  367 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

"You  mean — it's  different  because  I'm  not  good." 

"No,  my  child,  I'm  afraid  it's  different  because  I'm  bad. 
That's  as  near  as  we  can  get  to  it." 

She  shook  her  head  in  persistent,  obstinate  negation. 

"See  here,  Maggie,  we  must  end  it.  We  can't  go  on 
like  this  any  more.  We  must  give  it  up." 

"I  can't,"  she  moaned.  "Don't  ask  me  to  do  that, 
Wallie  dear.  Don't  ask  me." 

"I  must,  Maggie.  /  must  give  it  up.  I  told  you,  dear, 
before  we  took  this  place,  that  it  must  end,  sooner  or  later, 
that  it  couldn't  last  very  long.  Don't  you  remember?" 

"Yes — I  remember." 

"And  you  promised  me,  didn't  you,  that  when  the 
time  came,  you  wouldn't " 

"'I  know.     I  said  I  wouldn't  make  a  fuss." 

"Well,  dear,  we've  got  to  end  it  now.  I  only  came 
to  talk  it  over  with  you.  There'll  have  to  be  arrange- 
ments." 

"I  know.    I've  got  to  clear  out  of  this." 

She  said  it  sadly,  without  passion  and  without  resent- 
ment. 

"No,"  he  said,  "not  if  you'd  rather  stay.  Do  you  like 
the  farm,  Maggie?" 

"I  love  it." 

"Do  you?  I  was  afraid  you  didn't.  I  thought  you 
hated  the  country." 

"I  love  it.     I  love  it." 

"Oh,  well  then,  you  shan't  leave  it.  I'll  keep  on  the 
farm  for  you.  And,  see  here,  don't  worry  about  things. 
I'll  look  after  you,  all  your  life,  dear." 

"Look  after  me?"  Her  face  brightened.  "Like  you 
used  to?" 


368  The  Helpmate 

"Provide  for  you." 

"Oh !"  she  cried.  "That!  I  don't  want  to  be  provided 
for.  I  won't  have  it.  I'd  rather  be  let  alone  and  die." 

"Maggie,  I  know  it's  hard  on  you.  Don't  make  it 
harder.  Don't  make  it  hard  for  me." 

"You?"  she  sobbed. 

"Yes,  me.  It's  all  wrong.  I'm  all  wrong.  I  can't  do 
the  right  thing,  whatever  I  do.  It's  wrong  to  stay  with 
you.  It's  wrong,  it's  brutally  wrong  to  leave  you.  But 
that's  what  I've  got  to  do." 

"You  said — you  only  said — just  now — you'd  got  to 
end  it." 

"That's  it.    I've  got  to  end  it." 

She  stood  up  flaming. 

"End  it  then.  End  it  this  minute.  Give  up  the  farm. 
Send  me  away.  I'll  go  anywhere  you  tell  me.  Only 
don't  say  you  won't  come  and  see  me." 

"See  you?  Don't  you  understand,  Maggie,  that  seeing 
you  is  what  I've  got  to  give  up  ?  The  other  things  don't 
matter." 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "it's  you  who  don't  understand.  I 
mean — I  mean — see  me  like  you  used  to.  That's  all  I 
want,  Wallie.  Only  just  to  see  you.  That  wouldn't  be 
awful,  would  it?  There  wouldn't  be  any  sin  in  that?" 

Sin  ?  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  said  the  word. 
The  first  time,  he  imagined,  she  had  formed  the  thought. 

"Poor  little  girl,"  he  said.  "No,  no,  dear,  it  wouldn't 
do.  It  sounds  simple,  but  it  isn't." 

"But,"  she  said,  bewildered,  "I  love  you." 

He  smiled.  "That's  why,  Maggie,  that's  why.  You've 
been  very  sweet  and  very  good  to  me.  And  that's  why 
I  mustn't  see  you.  That's  how  you  make  it  hard  for 
me." 


The  Helpmate  369 

Maggie  sat  down  and  put  her  elbows  on  the  table  and 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Will  you  give  me  some  tea  ?"  he  said  abruptly. 

She  rose. 

"It's  all  stewed.    I'll  make  fresh." 

"No.    That'll  do.    I  can't  wait." 

She  gave  him  his  tea.  Before  he  tasted  it  he  got  up 
and  poured  out  a  cup  for  her.  She  drank  a  little  at  his 
bidding,  then  pushed  the  cup  from  her,  choking.  She 
sat,  not  looking  at  him,  but  looking  away,  through  the 
window,  across  the  garden  and  the  fields. 
„  "I  must  go  now,"  he  said.  "Don't  come  with  me." 

She  started  to  her  feet. 

"Ah,  let  me  come." 

"Better  not.    Much  better  not." 

"I  must,"  she  said. 

They  set  out  along  the  field-track.  Steve,  carrying  his 
master's  luggage,  went  in  front,  at  a  little  distance.  He 
didn't  want  to  see  them,  still  less  to  hear  them  speak. 

But  they  did  not  speak. 

At  the  creek's  bank  Steve  was  reay  with  the  boat. 

Majendie  took  Maggie's  hand  and  pressed  it.  She 
flung  herself  on  him,  and  he  had  to  loose  her  hold  by  main 
force.  She  swayed,  clutching  at  him  to  steady  herself. 
He  heard  Steve  groan.  He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
and  kept  it  there  a  moment,  till  she  stood  firm.  Her  eyes, 
fixed  on  his,  struck  tears  from  them,  tears  that  cut  their 
way  like  knives  under  his  eyelids. 

Her  body  ceased  swaying.  He  felt  it  grow  rigid  under 
his  hand. 

Then  he  went  from  her  and  stepped  into  the  boat.  She 
stood  still,  looking  after  him,  pressing  one  hand  against 
her  breast,  as  if  to  keep  down  its  heaving. 


370  The  Helpmate 

Steve  pushed  off  from  the  bank,  and  rowed  towards  the 
creek's  mouth.  And  as  he  rowed,  he  turned  his  head 
over  his  right  shoulder,  away  from  the  shore  where 
Maggie  stood  with  her  hand  upon  her  breast. 

Majendie  did  not  look  back.  Neither  he  nor  Steve 
saw  that,  as  they  neared  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  Maggie 
had  turned,  and  was  going  rapidly  across  the  field,  to- 
wards the  far  side  of  the  spit  of  land  where  the  yacht  lay 
moored  out  of  the  current.  As  they  had  to  round  the 
point,  her  way  by  land  was  shorter  than  theirs  by  water. 

When  they  rounded  the  point  they  saw  her  standing  on 
the  low  inner  shore,  watching  for  them. 

She  stood  on  the  bank,  just  above  the  belt  of  silt  and 
sand  that  divided  it  from  the  river.  The  two  men  turned 
for  a  moment,  and  watched  her  from  the  yacht's  deck. 
She  waited  till  the  big  mainsail  went  up,  and  the  yacht's 
head  swung  round  and  pointed  up  stream.  Then  she 
began  to  run  fast  along  the  shore,  close  to  the  river. 

At  that  sight  Majendie  turned  away  and  set  his  face 
toward  the  Lincolnshire  side. 

He  was  startled  by  an  oath  from  Steve  and  a  growl 

from  Steve's  father  at  the  wheel.  "Eh — the  little 

!"  At  the  same  instant  the  yacht  was  pulled  sud- 
denly inshore  and  her  boom  swung  violently  round. 

Steve  and  the  boatswain  rushed  to  the  ropes  and  began 
hauling  down  the  mainsail. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  there?"  shouted 
Majendie.  But  no  one  answered  him. 

When  the  sail  came  down  he  saw. 

"My  God,"  he  cried,  "she's  going  in." 

Old  Pearson,  at  the  wheel,  spat  quietly  over  the  yacht's 
side..  "Not  she,"  said  old  Pearson.  "She's  too  much 
afraid  o'  cold  water." 


The  Helpmate  371 

Maggie  was  down  on  the  lower  bank  close  to  the  edge 
of  the  river.  Majendie  saw  her  putting  her  feet  in  the 
water  and  drawing  them  out  again,  first  one  foot,  and  then 
the  other.  Then  she  ran  a  little  way,  very  fast,  like  a 
thing  hunted.  She  stumbled  on  the  slippery,  slanting 
ground,  fell,  picked  herself  up  again,  and  ran.  Then  she 
stood  still  and  tried  the  water  again,  first  one  foot  and 
then  the  other,  desperate,  terrified,  determined.  She  was 
afraid  of  life  and  death. 

The  belt  of  sand  sloped  gently,  and  the  river  was  shal- 
low for  a  few  feet  from  the  shore.  She  was  safe  unless 
she  threw  herself  in. 

Majendie  and  Steve  rushed  together  for  the  boat.  As 
Majendie  pushed  against  him  at  the  gangway,  Steve 
shook  him  off.  There  was  a  brief  struggle.  Old  Pearson 
left  the  wheel  to  the  boatswain  and  crossed  to  the  gang- 
way, where  the  two  men  still  struggled.  He  put  his  hand 
on  his  master's  sleeve. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  you'd  best  stay  where  you  are." 

He  stayed. 

The  captain  went  to  the  wheel  again,  and  the  boat- 
swain to  the  boat.  Majendie  stood  stock-still  by  the 
gangway.  His  hands  were  clenched  in  his  pockets :  his 
face  was  drawn  and  white.  The  captain  slewed  round 
upon  him  a  small  vigilant  eye.  "You'd  best  leave  her 
to  Steve,  sir.  He's  a  good  lad  and  he'll  look  after  'er. 
He'd  give  his  'ead  to  marry  her.  Only  she  wuddn't  look 
at  'im." 

Majendie  said  nothing.  And  the  captain  continued  his 
consolation. 

"She's  only  trying  it  on,  sir,"  said  he.  "I  know  'em. 
She'll  do  nowt.  She'll  do  nubbut  wet  'er  feet.  She's 
afeard  o'  cold  water." 


372  The  Helpmate 

But  before  the  boat  could  put  off,  Maggie  was  in  again. 
This  time  her  feet  struck  a  shelf  of  hard  mud.  She 
slipped,  rolled  sideways,  and  lay,  half  in  and  half  out  of 
the  water.  There  she  stayed  till  the  boat  reached  her. 

Majendie  saw  Steve  lift  her  and  carry  her  to  the  upper 
bank.  He  saw  Maggie  struggle  from  his  arms  and  beat 
him  off.  Then  he  saw  Steve  seize  her  by  force,  and  drag 
her  back,  over  the  fields,  towards  Three  Elms  Farm. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

MAJENDIE  landed  at  the  pier  and  went  straight  to 
the  office.    There  he  found  a  telegram  from  Anne 
telling  him  of  his  child's  death. 

He  went  to  the  house.  The  old  nurse  opened  the  door 
for  him.  She  was  weeping  bitterly.  He  asked  for  Anne, 
and  was  told  that  she  was  lying  down  and  could  not  see 
him.  It  was  Nanna  who  told  him  how  Peggy  died,  and 
all  the  things  he  had  to  know.  When  she  left  him,  he 
shut  himself  up  alone  in  his  study  for  the  first  hour  of 
his  grief.  He  wanted  to  go  to  Anne;  but  he  was  too 
deeply  stupefied  to  wonder  why  she  would  not  see  him. 

Later  they  met. 

He  knew  by  his  first  glance  at  her  face  that  he  must  not 
speak  to  her  of  the  dead  child.  He  could  understand 
that.  He  was  even  glad  of  it.  In  this  she  was  like  him, 
that  deep  feeling  left  her  dumb.  And  yet,  there  was  a 
difference.  It  was  that  he  could  not  speak,  and  she,  he 
felt,  would  not. 

There  were  things  that  had  to  be  done.  He  did  them 
all,  sparing  her  as  much  as  possible.  Once  or  twice  she 
had  to  be  consulted.  She  gave  him  a  fact,  or  an  opinion, 
in  a  brief  methodic  manner  that  set  him  at  a  distance 
from  her  sacred  sorrow.  She  had  betrayed  more  emotion 
in  speaking  to  Dr.  Gardner. 

But  for  these  things  they  went  through  their  first  day 
in  silence,  like  people  who  respect  each  other's  grief  too 
profoundly  for  any  speech. 

373 


374  The  Helpmate 

In  the  evening  they  sat  together  in  the  drawing-room. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  do. 

Then  he  spoke.  He  asked  to  see  Peggy.  His  voice 
was  so  low  that  she  did  not  hear  him. 

"What  did  you  say,  Walter?" 

He  had  to  say  it  again.  "Where  is  she?  Can  I  see 
her?" 

His  voice  was  still  low,  and  it  was  thick  and  uncertain, 
but  this  time  she  understood. 

"In  Edie's  room,"  she  said.    "Nanna  has  the  key." 

She  did  not  go  with  him. 

When  he  came  back  to  her  she  was  still  cold  and  torpid. 
He  could  understand  that  her  grief  had  frozen  her. 

At  night  she  parted  from  him  without  a  word. 

So  the  days  went  on. 

Sometimes  he  would  sit  in  the  study  by  himself  for 
a  little  while.  His  racked  nerves  were  soothed  by  soli- 
tude. Then  he  would  think  of  the  woman  upstairs  in 
the  drawing-room,  sitting  alone.  And  he  would  go  to  her. 
She  did  not  send  him  away.  She  did  not  leave  him.  She 
did  nothing.  She  said  nothing. 

He  began  to  be  afraid.  It  would  do  her  good,  he 
said  to  himself,  if  she  could  cry.  He  wondered  whether 
it  was  wise  to  leave  her  to  her  terrible  torpor;  whether 
he  ought  to  speak  to  her.  But  he  could  not. 

Yet  she  was  kind  to  him  for  all  her  coldness.  Once, 
when  his  grief  was  heaviest  upon  him,  he  thought  she 
looked  at  him  with  anxiety,  with  pity.  She  came  to  him 
once,  where  he  sat  downstairs,  alone.  But  though  she 
came  to  him,  she  still  kept  him  from  her.  And  she  would 
not  go  with  him  into  the  room  where  Peggy  lay. 

Now  and  then  he  wondered  if  she  knew.  He  was 
not  certain.  He  put  the  thought  away  from  him.  He 


The  Helpmate  375 

was  sure  that  for  nearly  three  years  she  had  not  known 
anything.  She  had  not  known  anything  as  long  as  she 
had  had  the  child,  when  her  knowing  would  not,  he 
thought,  have  mattered  half  so  much.  It  would  be  hor- 
rible if  she  knew  now.  And  yet  sometimes  her  eyes 
seemed  to  say  to  him:  "Why  not  now?  When  nothing 
matters." 

On  the  night  before  the  funeral,  the  night  they  closed 
the  coffin,  he  came  to  her  where  she  sat  upstairs  alone. 
He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  spoke  her  name. 
She  shrank  from  him  with  a  low  cry.  And  again  he  won- 
dered if  she  knew. 

The  day  after  the  funeral  she  told  him  that  she  was 
going  away  for  a  month  with  Mrs.  Gardner. 

He  said"  he  was  glad  to  hear  it.  It  would  do  her  good. 
It  was  the  best  thing  she  could  do. 

He  had  meant  to  take  her  away  himself.  She  knew 
it.  Yet  she  had  arranged  to  go  with  Mrs.  Gardner. 

Then  he  was  certain  that  she  knew. 

She  went,  with  Mrs.  Gardner,  the  next  day.  He  and 
Dr.  Gardner  saw  them  off  at  the  station.  He  thanked 
Mrs.  Gardner  for  her  kindness,  wondering  if  she  knew. 
The  little  woman  had  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  pressed  his 
hand  and  tried  to  speak  to  him,  and  broke  down.  He 
gathered  that,  whatever  Anne  knew,  her  friend  knew 
nothing. 

The  doctor  was  inscrutable.  He  might  or  he  might 
not  know.  If  he  did,  he  would  keep  his  knowledge  to 
himself.  They  walked  together  from  the  station,  and 
the  doctor  talked  about  the  weather  and  the  municipal 
elections. 

Anne  was  to  be  away  a  month.  Majendie  wrote  to  her 
every  week  and  received,  every  week,  a  precise,  formal 


376  The  Helpmate 

little  letter  in  reply.  She  told  him,  every  week,  of  an 
improvement  in  her  own  health,  and  appeared  solicitous, 
for  his. 

While  she  was  away,  he  saw  a  great  deal  of  the  Han- 
nays  and  of  Gorst.  When  he  was  not  with  the  Hannays, 
Gorst  was  with  him.  Gorst  was  punctilious,  but  a  little 
shy  in  his  inquiries  for  Mrs.  Majendie.  The  Hannays 
made  no  allusion  to  her  beyond  what  decency  demanded. 
They  evidently  regarded  her  as  a  painful  subject. 

About  a  week  before  the  day  fixed  for  Anne's  return, 
the  firm  of  Hannay  &  Majendie  had  occasion  to  con- 
sult its  solicitor  about  a  mortgage  on  some  office  build- 
ings. Price  was  excited  and  assiduous.  Excited  and 
assiduous,  Hannay  thought,  beyond  all  proportion  to  the 
trivial  affair.  Hannay  noticed  that  Price  took  a  peculiar 
and  almost  morbid  interest  in  the  junior  partner.  His 
manner  set  Hannay  thinking.  It  suggested  the  legal 
instinct  scenting  the  divorce-court  from  afar. 

He  spoke  of  it  to  Mrs.  Hannay. 

"Do  you  think  she  knows?"  said  Mrs.  Hannay. 

"Of  course  she  does.  Or  why  should  she  leave  him, 
at  a  time  when  most  people  stick  to  each  other  if  they've 
never  stuck  before?" 

"Do  you  think  she'll  try  for  a  separation  ?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

"I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Hannay.  "Now  that  the  dear  little 
girl's  gone." 

"Not  she.  She  won't  let  him  off  as  easily  as  all  that. 
She'll  think  of  the  other  woman.  And  she'll  live  with 
him  and  punish  him  for  ever." 

He  paused  pondering.  Then  he  delivered  himself  of 
that  which  was  within  him,  his  idea  of  Anne. 

"I  always  said  she  was  a  she-dog  in  the  manger." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ANNE  was  not  expected  home  before  the  middle  of 
November.    She  wrote  to  her  husband,  fixing  Sat- 
urday for  the  day  of  her  return. 

Majendie,  therefore,  was  surprised  to  find  her  lug- 
gage in  the  hall  when  he  entered  the  house  at  six  o'clock 
on  Friday  evening.  Nanna  had  evidently  been  waiting 
for  the  sound  of  his  latchkey.  She  hurried  to  inter- 
cept him. 

"The  mistress  has  come  home,  sir,"  she  said. 

"Has  she?  I  hope  you've  got  things  comfortable  for 
her." 

"Yes,  sir.  We  had  a  telegram  this  afternoon.  She 
said  she  would  like  to  see  you  in  the  study,  sir,  as  soon 
as  you  came  in." 

He  went  at  once  into  the  study.  Anne  was  sitting  there 
in  her  chair  by  the  hearth.  Her  hat  and  jacket  were 
thrown  on  the  writing-table  that  stood  near  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  She  rose  as  he  came  in,  but  made  no 
advance  to  meet  him.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment  by 
the  closed  door,  and  they  held  each  other  with  their  eyes. 

"I  didn't  expect  you  till  to-morrow." 

"I  sent  a  telegram,"  she  said. 

"If  you'd  sent  it  to  the  office  I'd  have  met  you." 

"I  didn't  want  anybody  to  meet  me." 

He  felt  that  her  words  had  some  reference  to  their  loss, 
and  to  the  sadness  of  her  homecoming.  A  sigh  broke 
from  him ;  but  he  was  unaware  that  he  had  sighed. 

377 


378  The  Helpmate 

He  sat  down,  not  in  his  accustomed  seat  by  the  hearth, 
opposite  to  hers,  but  in  a  nearer  chair  by  the  writing- 
table.  He  saw  that  she  had  been  writing  letters.  He 
pushed  them  away  and  turned  his  chair  round  so  as  to 
face  her.  His  heart  ached  looking  at  her. 

There  were  deep  lines  on  her  forehead ;  and  she  was 
very  pale,  even  her  small  close  mouth  had  no  colour  in 
it.  She  kept  her  sad  eyes  half  hidden  under  their  droop- 
ing lids.  Her  lips  were  tightly  compressed,  her  narrow 
nostrils  white  and  pinched.  It  was  a  face  in  which  all  the 
doors  of  life  were  closing;  where  the  inner  life  went  on 
tensely,  secretly,  behind  the  closing  doors. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'm  very  glad  you've  come  back." 

"Walter — have  you  any  idea  why  I  went  away  ?" 

"Why  you  went  ?  Obviously,  it  was  the  best  thing  you 
could  do." 

"It  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do.  And  I  am  glad  I 
did  it.  My  mind  has  become  clearer." 

"/  see.    I  thought  it  would." 

"It  would  not  have  been  clear  if  I  had  stayed." 

"No,"  he  said  vaguely,  "of  course  it  wouldn't." 

"I've  seen,"  she  continued,  "that  there  is  nothing  for 
me  but  to  come  back.  It  is  the  right  thing." 

"Did  you  doubt  it?" 

"Yes.  I  even  doubted  whether  it  were  possible — 
whether,  in  the  circumstances,  I  could  bear  to  come  back, 
to  stay " 

"Do  you  mean — to — the  house?" 

"No.    I  mean — to  you." 

He  turned  away.  "I  understand,"  he  said.  "So  it 
came  to  that?" 

"Yes.  It  came  to  that.  I've  been  here  three  hours; 
and  up  to  the  last  hour,  I  was  not  sure  whether  I  would 


The  Helpmate  379 

not  pack  the  rest  of  my  things  and  go  away.  I  had 
written  a  letter  to  you.  There  it  is,  under  your  arm." 

"Am  I  to  read  it?" 

"Yes." 

He  turned  his  back  on  her,  and  read  the  letter. 

"I  see.  You  say  here  you  want  a  separation.  If  you 
want  it  you  shall  have  it.  But  hadn't  you  better  hear 
what  I  have  to  say,  first?" 

"I've  come  back  for  that.    What  have  you  to  say  ?" 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  his  breast. 

"Not  very  much,  I'm  afraid.  Except  that  I'm  sorry 
— and  ashamed  of  myself — and — I  ask  your  forgiveness. 
What  more  can  I  say?" 

"What  more  indeed?  I'm  to  understand,  then,  that 
everything  I  was  told  is  true?" 

"It  was  true." 

"And  is  not  now?" 

"No.    Whoever  told  you,  omitted  to  tell  you  that." 

"You  mean  you  have  given  up  living  with  this 
woman  ?" 

"Yes.    If  you  call  it  living  with  her." 

"You  have  given  it  up — for  how  long?" 

"About  five  weeks."    His  voice  was  almost  inaudible. 

She  winced.  Five  weeks  back  brought  her  to  the  date 
of  Peggy's  death. 

"I  dare  say,"  she  said.  "You  could  hardly — have  done 
less  in  the  circumstances." 

"Anne,"  he  said.  "I  gave  it  up — I  broke  it  off — before 
that.  I — I  broke  with  her  that  morning — before  I  heard." 

"You  were  away  that  night." 

"I  was  not  with  her." 

"Well — And  it  was  going  on,  all  the  time,  for  three 
years  before  that?" 


380  The  Helpmate 

"Yes." 

"Ever  since  your  sister's  death  ?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"Ever  since  Edie  died,"  she  repeated,  as  if  to  herself 
rather  than  to  him. 

"Not  quite.  Why  don't  you  say — since  you  sent  me 
away  ?" 

"When  did  I  ever  send  you  away?" 

"That  night.    When  I  came  to  you." 

She  remembered. 

"Then?  Walter,  that  is  unforgivable.  To  bring  up  a 
little  thing  like  that — 

"You  call  it  a  little  thing?    A  little  thing?" 

"I  had  forgotten  it.  And  for  you  to  remember  it  all 
these  years — and  to  cast  it  up  against  me — now " 

"I  haven't  cast  anything  up  against  you." 

"You  implied  you  held  me  responsible  for  your 
sin." 

"I  don't  hold  you  responsible  for  anything.  Not  even 
for  that." 

Her  face  never  changed.  She  did  not  take  in  the  mean- 
ing of  his  emphasis. 

He  continued.  "And,  if  you  want  your  separation,  you 
shall  have  it.  Though  I  did  hope  that  you  might  con- 
sider that  six  years  was  about  enough  of  it." 

"I  did  want  it.  But  I  do  not  want  it  now.  When  I 
wrote  that  letter  I  had  forgotten  my  promise." 

"You  shall  have  your  promise  back  again  if  you  want 
it.  I  shall  not  hold  you  to  it,  or  to  anything,  if  you'd 
rather  not." 

"I  can  never  have  my  promise  back — I  made  it  to 
Edie." 

"To  Edie?' 


The  Helpmate  381 

"Yes.    A  short  time  before  she  died." 

His  face  brightened. 

"What  did  you  promise  her?"  he  said  softly. 

"That  I  would  never  leave  you." 

"Did  she  make  you  promise  not  to?" 

"No.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  I  could  leave  you. 
She  did  not  think  it  possible." 

"But  you  did?" 

"I  thought  it  possible — yes." 

"Even  then.  There  was  no  reason  then.  I  had  given 
you  no  cause." 

"I  did  not  know  that." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  suspected  me — then?" 

"I  never  accused  you,  Walter,  even  in  my  thoughts." 

"You  suspected?" 

"I  didn't  know." 

"And — afterwards — did  you  suspect  anything?" 

"No.    I  never  suspected  anything — afterwards." 

"I  see.  You  suspected  me  when  you  had  no  cause. 
And  when  I  gave  you  cause  you  suspected  nothing.  I 
must  say  you  are  a  very  extraordinary  woman." 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  answered. 

"Who  told  you  ?    Or  must  I  not  ask  that  ?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you.  I  would  rather  not.  I  was  not  told 
much.  And  there  are  some  things  that  I  have  a  right 
to  know." 

"Well " 

"Who  is  this  woman? — the  girl  you've  been  living 
with?" 

"I've  no  right  to  tell  you — that.  Why  do  you  want  to 
know  ?  It's  all  over." 

"I  must  know,  Walter.    I  have  a  reason." 

"Can  you  give  me  your  reason  ?" 


382  The  Helpmate 

"Yes.    I  want  to  help  her." 

"You  would — really — help  her?" 

"If  I  can.     It  is  my  duty." 

"It  isn't  in  the  least  your  duty." 

"And  I  want  to  help  you.  That  also  is  my  duty.  I 
want  to  undo,  as  far  as  possible,  the  consequences  of  your 
sin.  We  cannot  let  the  girl  suffer." 

Majendie  was  moved  by  her  charity.  He  had  not 
looked  for  charity  from  Anne. 

"If  you  will  give  me  her  name,  and  tell  me  where  to 
find  her,  I  will  see  that  she  is  provided  for." 

"She  is  provided  for." 

"How?" 

"I  am  keeping  on  the  house  for  her." 

Anne's  face  flushed. 

"What  house?" 

"A  farm,  out  in  the  country." 

"That  house  is  yours?  You  were  living  with  her 
there?" 

"Yes." 

Her  face  hardened.  She  was  thinking  of  her  dead 
child,  who  was  to  have  gone  into  the  country  to  get 
strong. 

He  was  tortured  by  the  same  thought.  Maggie,  his 
mistress,  had  grown  fat  and  rosy  in  the  pure  air  of 
Holderness.  Peggy  had  died  in  Scale. 

In  her  bitterness  she  turned  on  him. 

"And  what  guarantee  have  I  that  you  will  not  go  to 
her  again?" 

"My  word.    Isn't  that  sufficient?" 

"I  don't  know,  Walter.  It  would  have  been  once.  It 
isn't  now.  What  proof  have  I  of  your  honour  ?" 

"My " 


The  Helpmate  383 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  forgot.  A  man's  honour  and 
a  woman's  honour  are  two  very  different  things." 

"They  are  both  things  that  are  usually  taken  for 
granted,  and  not  mentioned." 

"I  will  try  to  take  it  for  granted.  You  must  forgive 
my  having  mentioned  it.  There  is  one  thing  I  must 
know.  Has  she — that  woman — any  children  ?" 

"She  has  none." 

Up  till  that  moment,  the  examination  had  been  con- 
ducted with  the  coolness  of  intense  constraint.  But  for 
her  one  burst  of  feeling,  Anne  had  sustained  her  tone 
of  business-like  inquiry,  her  manner  of  the  woman  of 
committees.  Now,  as  she  asked  her  question,  her  voice 
shook  with  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Magendie,  as  he 
answered,  heard  her  draw  a  long,  deep  breath  of  relief. 

"And  you  propose  to  keep  on  this  house  for  her?"  she 
said  calmly. 

"Yes.  She  has  settled  in  there,  and  she  will  be  well 
looked  after." 

"Who  will  look  after  her?" 

"The  Pearsons.    They're  people  I  can  trust." 

"And,  besides  the  house,  I  suppose  you  will  give  her 
money  ?" 

"I  must  make  her  a  small  allowance." 

"That  is  a  very  unwise  arrangement.  Whatever  help 
is  given  her  had  much  better  come  from  me." 

"From  you?" 

"From  a  woman.  It  will  be  the  best  safeguard  for 
the  girl." 

He  saw  her  drift  and  smiled. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  propose  to  rescue  her?" 

"It's  my  duty — my  work." 

"Your  work?" 


386  The  Helpmate 

trouble.  It  was  the  trouble  all  along,  ever  since  I  married 
you.  I  know  I've  been  unfaithful  to  you,  but  I  never 
loved  any  one  but  you.  Consider  how  we've  been  living, 
you  and  I,  for  the  last  six  years — can  you  say  that  I  put 
another  woman  in  your  place  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  sad,  uncomprehending  eyes ; 
her  hands  made  a  hopeless,  helpless  gesture. 

"You  know  what  you  have,  done,"  she  said  presently. 
"And  you  know  that  it  was  wrong." 

"Yes,  it  was  wrong.  But  the  whole  thing  was  wrong. 
Wrong  from  the  beginning.  How  are  we  going  to  make 
it  right?" 

"I  don't  know,  Walter.    We  must  do  our  best." 

"Yes,  but  what  are  we  going  to  do?  What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you." 

"We  are  to  go  on,  then,  as  we  did  before  ?" 

"Yes — as  far  as  possible." 

"Then,"  he  said,  "we  shall  still  be  all  wrong.  Can't 
you  see  it?  Can't  you  see  now  that  it's  all  wrong?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Our  life.  Yours  and  mine.  Are  you  going  to  begin 
again  like  that?" 

"Does  it  rest  with  me?" 

"Yes.  It  rests  with  you,  I  think.  You  say  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  What  is  your  notion  of  the 
best?" 

"I  don't  know,  Walter." 

"I  must  know.  You  say  you'll  take  me  back — you'll 
never  leave  me.  What  are  you  taking  me  back  to?  Not 
to  that  old  misery?  It  wasn't  only  bad  for  me,  dear. 
It  was  bad  for  both  of  us." 

She  sighed,  and  her  sigh  shuddered  to  a  sob  in  her 


The  Helpmate  387 

throat.  The  sound  went  to  his  heart  and  stirred  in  it  a 
passion  of  pity. 

"God  knows,"  he  said,  "I'd  live  with  you  on  any  terms. 
And  I'll  keep  straight.  You  needn't  be  afraid.  Only — 
See  here.  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  take  me 
back.  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  if  I'd  left  off  caring  for  you. 
But  it  wasn't  there  I  went  wrong.  I  can't  explain  about 
Maggie.  You  wouldn't  understand.  But,  if  you'd  only 
try  to,  we  might  get  along.  There's  nothing  that  I  won't 
do  for  you  to  make  up " 

"You  can  do  nothing.  There  are  things  that  cannot  be 
made  up  for." 

"I  know — I  know.  But  still — we  mightn't  be  so  un- 
happy— perhaps,  in  time — And  if  we  had  children " 

"Never,"  she  cried  sharply,  "never!" 

He  had  not  stirred  in  his  chair  where  he  sat  bowed 
and  dejected.  But  she  drew  back,  flinching. 

"I  see,"  he  said.    "Then  you  do  not  forgive  me." 

"If  you  had  come  to  me,  and  told  me  of  your  tempta- 
tion— of  your  sin — three  years  ago,  I  would  have  for- 
given you  then.  I  would  have  taken  you  back.  I  cannot 
now.  Not  willingly,  not  with  the  feeling  that  I  ought 
to  have." 

She  spoke  humbly,  gently,  as  if  aware  that  she  was 
giving  him  pain.  Her  face  was  averted.  He  said  noth- 
ing; and  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Of  course  you  can  compel  me,"  she  said.  "You  can 
compel  me  to  anything." 

"I  have  never  compelled  you,  as  you  know." 

"I  know.    I  know  you  have  been  good  in  that  way." 

"Good  ?     Is  that  your  only  notion  of  goodness  ?" 

"Good  to  me,  Walter.  Yes.  You  were  very  good.  I 
do  not  say  that  I  will  not  go  back  to  you;  but  if  I  do, 


386  The  Helpmate 

trouble.  It  was  the  trouble  all  along,  ever  since  I  married 
you.  I  know  I've  been  unfaithful  to  you,  but  I  never 
loved  any  one  but  you.  Consider  how  we've  been  living, 
you  and  I,  for  the  last  six  years — can  you  say  that  I  put 
another  woman  in  your  place?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  sad,  uncomprehending  eyes  ; 
her  hands  made  a  hopeless,  helpless  gesture. 

"You  know  what  you  have  done,"  she  said  presently. 
"And  you  know  that  it  was  wrong." 

"Yes,  it  was  wrong.  But  the  whole  thing  was  wrong. 
Wrong  from  the  beginning.  How  are  we  going  to  make 
it  right?" 

"I  don't  know,  Walter.    We  must  do  our  best." 

"Yes,  but  what  are  we  going  to  do?  What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"I  have  told  you  that  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you." 

"We  are  to  go  on,  then,  as  we  did  before  ?" 

"Yes — as  far  as  possible." 

"Then,"  he  said,  "we  shall  still  be  all  wrong.  Can't 
you  see  it?  Can't  you  see  now  that  it's  all  wrong?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Our  life.  Yours  and  mine.  Are  you  going  to  begin 
again  like  that?" 

"Does  it  rest  with  me?" 

"Yes.  It  rests  with  you,  I  think.  You  say  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  What  is  your  notion  of  the 
best?" 

"I  don't  know,  Walter." 

"I  must  know.  You  say  you'll  take  me  back — you'll 
never  leave  me.  What  are  you  taking  me  back  to  ?  Not 
to  that  old  misery?  It  wasn't  only  bad  for  me,  dear. 
It  was  bad  for  both  of  us." 

She  sighed,  and  her  sigh  shuddered  to  a  sob  in  her 


The  Helpmate  387 

throat.  The  sound  went  to  his  heart  and  stirred  in  it  a 
passion  of  pity. 

"God  knows,"  he  said,  "I'd  live  with  you  on  any  terms. 
And  I'll  keep  straight.  You  needn't  be  afraid.  Only — 
See  here.  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  take  me 
back.  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  if  I'd  left  off  caring  for  you. 
But  it  wasn't  there  I  went  wrong.  I  can't  explain  about 
Maggie.  You  wouldn't  understand.  But,  if  you'd  only 
try  to,  we  might  get  along.  There's  nothing  that  I  won't 
do  for  you  to  make  up " 

"You  can  do  nothing.  There  are  things  that  cannot  be 
made  up  for." 

"I  know — I  know.  But  still — we  mightn't  be  so  un- 
happy— perhaps,  in  time — And  if  we  had  children " 

"Never,"  she  cried  sharply,  "never!" 

He  had  not  stirred  in  his  chair  where  he  sat  bowed 
and  dejected.  But  she  drew  back,  flinching. 

"I  see,"  he  said.    "Then  you  do  not  forgive  me." 

"If  you  had  come  to  me,  and  xold  me  of  your  tempta- 
tion— of  your  sin — three  years  ago,  I  would  have  for- 
given you  then.  I  would  have  taken  you  back.  I  cannot 
now.  Not  willingly,  not  with  the  feeling  that  I  ought 
to  have." 

She  spoke  humbly,  gently,  as  if  aware  that  she  was 
giving  him  pain.  Her  face  was  averted.  He  said  noth- 
ing; and  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Of  course  you  can  compel  me,"  she  said.  "You  can 
compel  me  to  anything." 

"I  have  never  compelled  you,  as  you  know." 

"I  know.    I  know  you  have  been  good  in  that  way." 

"Good?     Is  that  your  only  notion  of  goodness?" 

"Good  to  me,  Walter.  Yes.  You  were  very  good.  I 
do  not  say  that  I  will  not  go  back  to  you ;  but  if  I  do, 


388  The  Helpmate 

you  must  understand  plainly,  that  it  will  be  for  one  reason 
only.  Because  I  desire  to  save  you  from  yourself.  To 
save  some  other  woman,  perhaps " 

"You  can  let  the  other  woman  take  care  of  herself.  As 
for  me,  I  appreciate  your  generosity,  but  I  decline  to  be 
saved  on  those  terms.  I'm  fastidious  about  a  few  things, 
and  that's  one  of  them.  What  you  are  trying  to  tell  me 
is  that  you  do  not  care  for  me." 

She  lifted  her  face.  "Walter,  I  have  never  in  all  my 
life  deceived  you.  I  do  not  care  for  you.  Not  in  that 
way." 

He  smiled.  "Well,  I'll  be  content  so  long  as  you  care 
for  me  in  any  way — your  way.  I  think  your  way's  a  mis- 
take ;  but  I  won't  insist  on  that.  I'll  do  my  best  to  adapt 
my  way  to  yours,  that's  all." 

Her  face  was  very  still.  Under  their  deep  lids  her  eyes 
brooded,  as  if  trying  to  see  the  truth  inside  herself. 

"No — no,"  she  moaned.  "I  haven't  told  you  the  truth. 
I  believe  there  is  no  way  in  which  I  can  care  for  you 
again.  Or — well — I  can  care  perhaps — I'm  caring  now — 
but " 

"I  see.    You  do  not  love  me." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No.  I  know  what  love  is,  and — 
I  do  not  love  you." 

"If  you  don't  love  me,  of  course  there's  nothing  more 
to  be  said." 

"Yes,  there  is.  There's  one  thing  that  I  have  kept  from 
you." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  may  as  well  let  me  have  it. 
There's  no  good  keeping  things  from  me." 

"I  had  meant  to  spare  you." 

At  that  he  laughed.     "Oh,  don't  spare  me." 

She  still  hesitated. 


The  Helpmate  389 

"What  is  it?" 

She  spoke  low. 

"If  you  had  been  here — that  night — Peggy  would  not 
have  died." 

He  drew  a  quick  breath.  "What  makes  you  think 
that?"  he  said  quietly. 

"She  overstrained  her  heart  with  crying.  As  you  know. 
She  was  crying  for  you.  And  you  were  not  there.  Noth- 
ing would  make  her  believe  that  you  were  not  dead." 

She  saw  the  muscles  of  his  face  contract  with  sudden 
pain. 

He  looked  at  her  gravely.  The  look  expressed  his 
large  male  contempt  for  her  woman's  cruelty ;  also  a  cer- 
tain luminous  compassion. 

"Why  have  you  told  me  this?"  he  said. 

"I've  told  you,  because  I  think  the  thought  of  it  may 
restrain  you  when  nothing  else  will." 

"I  see.    You  mean  to  say,  you  believe  I  killed  her?" 

Anne  closed  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

HE  did  not  know  whether  he  believed  what  she  had 
said,  nor  whether  she  believed  it  herself,  neither 
could  he  understand  her  motive  in  saying  it. 

At  intervals  he  was  profoundly  sorry  for  her.  Pity  for 
her  loosened,  from  time  to  time,  the  grip  of  his  own  pain. 
He  told  himself  that  she  must  have  gone  through  intoler- 
able days  and  nights  of  misery  before  she  could  bring 
herself  to  say  a  thing  like  that.  Her  grief  excused  her. 
But  he  knew  that,  if  he  had  been  in  her  place,  she  in  his, 
he  the  saint  and  she  the  sinner,  and  that,  if  he  had  known 
her  through  her  sin  to  be  responsible  for  the  child's  death, 
there  was  no  misery  on  earth  that  could  have  made  him 
charge  her  with  it. 

Further  than  that  he  could  not  understand  her.  The 
suddenness  and  cruelty  of  the  blow  had  brutalised  his 
imagination. 

He  got  up  and  stretched  himself,  to  shake  off  the 
oppression  that  weighed  on  him  like  an  unwholesome 
sleep.  As  he  rose  he  felt  a  queer  feeling  in  his  head,  a 
giddiness,  a  sense  of  obstruction  in  his  brain.  He  went 
into  the  dining-room,  and  poured  himself  out  a  small 
quantity  of  whiskey,  measuring  it  with  the  accuracy  of 
abstemious  habit.  The  dose  had  become  necessary  since 
his  nerves  had  been  unhinged  by  worry  and  the  shock  of 
Peggy's  death.  This  time  he  drank  it  almost  undiluted. 

He  felt  better.  The  stimulant  had  jogged  something  in 
his  brain  and  cleared  it. 

390 


The  Helpmate  391 

He  went  back  into  the  study  and  began  to  think.  He 
remained  thinking  for  some  time,  consecutively,  and  with 
great  lucidity.  He  asked  himself  what  he  was  to  do  now, 
and  he  saw  clearly  that  he  could  do  nothing.  If  Anne 
had  been  a  passionate  woman,  hurling  her  words  in  a 
fury  of  fierce  grief,  he  would  have  thought  no  more  of 
it.  If  she  had  been  the  tender,  tearful  sort,  dropping 
words  in  a  weak,  helpless  misery,  he  would  have  thought 
no  more  of  it.  He  could  imagine  poor  little  Maggie  say- 
ing a  thing  like  that,  not  knowing  what  she  said.  If  it 
had  been  poor  little  Maggie  he  could  have  drawn  her 
to  him  and  comforted  her,  and  reasoned  with  her  till  he 
had  made  her  see  the  senselessness  of  her  idea.  Maggie 
would  have  listened  to  reason — his  reason.  Anne  never 
would. 

She  had  been  cold  and  slow,  and  implacably  deliberate. 
It  was  not  blind  instinct,  but  illuminated  reason  that 
had  told  her  what  to  say  and  when  to  say  it.  Nothing 
he  could  ever  do  or  say  would  make  her  take  back  her 
words.  And  if  she  took  back  her  words,  her  thought 
would  remain  indestructible.  She  would  never  give  it  up ; 
she  would  never  approach  him  without  it ;  she  would 
never  forget  that  it  was  there.  It  would  always  rise  up 
between  them,  unburied,  unappeased. 

His  brain  swam  and  clouded  again.  He  went  again  to 
the  dining-room  and  drank  more  whiskey.  Kate  was  in 
the  dining-room  and  she  saw  him  drinking.  He  saw  Kate 
looking  at  him ;  but  he  didn't  care.  He  was  past  caring 
for  what  anybody  might  think  of  him. 

His  brain  was  clearer  than  ever  now.  He  realised 
Anne's  omnipotence  to  harm  him.  He  saw  the  hard,  im- 
perishable divinity  in  her.  His  wife  was  a  spiritual 
woman.  He  had  not  always  known  what  that  meant. 


392  The  Helpmate 

But  he  knew  now ;  and  now  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  judged  her.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  his  heart 
rose  in  a  savage  revolt  against  her  power. 

His  head  grew  hot.  The  air  of  the  study  was  stifling. 
He  opened  the  window  and  went  out  into  the  cool,  dark 
garden.  He  paced  up  and  down,  heedless  of  where  he 
trod,  trampling  the  flowerless  plants  down  into  their  black 
beds.  At  the  end  of  the  path  a  little  circle  of  white  stones 
glimmered  in  the  dark.  That  was  Peggy's  garden. 

An  agony  of  love  and  grief  shook  him  as  he  thought  of 
the  dead  child. 

He  thought,  with  his  hot  brain,  of  Anne,  and  his  anger 
flared  like  hate.  It  was  through  the  child  that  she  had 
always  struck  him.  She  was  a  fool  to  refuse  to  have 
more  children,  to  sacrifice  her  boundless  opportunities  to 
strike. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  upper  window.  He  thought 
of  Maggie,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  back  alley  be- 
hind the  garden,  watching  the  lights  of  his  house  burn- 
ing to  the  dawn.  The  little  thing  had  loved  him.  She 
had  given  him  all  she  had  to  give ;  and  he  had  given  her 
nothing.  He  had  compelled  her  to  live  childless;  and  he 
had  cast  her  off.  She  had  been  sacrificed  to  his  passion, 
and  to  his  wife's  coldness. 

Up  there  he  could  see  Anne's  large  shadow  moving  on 
the  lighted  window-blind.  She  was  dressing  for  dinner. 

Kate  was  standing  on  the  step,  looking  for  him.  As 
he  came  to  the  study  window  he  saw  Nanna  behind  her, 
going  out  of  the  room.  His  servants  had  been  watching 
him.  Kate  was  frightened.  Her  voice  fluttered  in  her 
throat  as  she  told  him  dinner  was  served. 

He  sat  opposite  his  wife,  with  the  little  oblong  table 
between  them.  Twice,  sometimes  three  times  a  day,  as 


The  Helpmate  393 

long  as  they  both  lived,  they  would  have  to  sit  like  that, 
separated,  hostile,  horribly  conscious  of  each  other. 

Anne  talked  about  the  Gardners,  and  he  stared  at  her 
stupidly,  with  eyes  that  were  like  heavy  burning  balls 
under  his  aching  forehead.  He  ate  little  and  drank  a 
good  deal.  Half  an  hour  after  dinner  he  followed  her 
to  the  drawing-room,  dazed,  not  knowing  clearly  where 
he  went. 

Anne  was  seated  at  her  writing-table.  The  place  was 
strewn  with  papers.  She  was  absorbed  in  the  business 
of  her  committee,  working  off  five  weeks  of  correspond- 
ence in  arrears. 

He  lay  on  the  sofa  and  dozed,  and  she  took  no  notice  of 
him.  He  left  the  room,  and  she  did  not  hear  him  go  out. 

He  went  to  the  Hannays.  They  were  out.  He  went 
on  to  the  Ransomes  and  found  them  there.  He  found 
Canon  Wharton  there,  too,  drinking  whiskey  and  soda. 

"Here's  Wallie,"  some  one  said.  Mrs.  Hannay  (it 
was  Mrs.  Hannay)  gave  a  cry  of  delight,  and  made  a 
little  rush  at  him  which  confused  him.  Ransome  poured 
out  more  whiskey,  and  gave  it  to  him  and  to  the  Canon. 
The  Canon  drank  peg  for  peg  with  them,  while  he  eyed 
Majendie  austerely.  He  used  to  drink  peg  for  peg  with 
Lawson  Hannay,  in  the  days  when  Hannay  drank;  now 
he  drank  peg  for  peg  with  Majendie,  eyeing  him  austerely. 

Then  the  Hannays  came  between  them.  They  closed 
round  Majendie  and  hemmed  him  in  a  corner,  and  kept 
him  there  talking  to  him.  He  had  no  clear  idea  what 
they  were  saying  or  what  he  was  saying  to  them;  but 
their  voices  were  kind  and  they  soothed  him.  Dick  Ran- 
some brought  him  more  whiskey.  He  refused  it.  He  had 
a  sort  of  idea  that  he  had  had  enough,  rather  more,  in 
fact,  than  was  quite  good  for  him;  and  ladies  were  in 


394  The  Helpmate 

the  room.  Ransome  pressed  him,  and  Lawson  Hannay 
said  something  to  Ransome;  he  couldn't  tell  what.  He 
was  getting  drowsy  and  disinclined  to  answer  when  peo- 
ple spoke  to  him.  He  wished  they  would  let  him  alone. 

Lawson  Hannay  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said, 
"Come  along  with  us,  Wallie,"  and  he  wished  Lawson 
Hannay  would  let  him  alone.  Mrs.  Hannay  came  and 
stooped  over  him  and  whispered  things  in  his  ear,  and  he 
tried  to  rouse  himself  so  far  as  to  stare  into  her  face  and 
try  to  understand  what  she  was  saying. 

She  was  saying,  "Wallie,  get  up — Come  with  us, 
Wallie,  dear."  And  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He 
took  her  hand  in  his,  and  pressed  it,  and  let  it  drop. 

Then  Ransome  said,  "Why  can't  you  let  the  poor  chap 
alone?  Let  him  stay  if  he  likes." 

That  was  what  he  wanted.  Ransome  knew  what  he 
wanted — to  be  let  alone. 

He  didn't  see  the  Hannays  go.  The  only  thing  he  saw 
distinctly  was  the  Canon's  large  grey  face,  and  the  eyes 
in  it  fixed  unpleasantly  on  him.  He  wished  the  Canon 
would  let  him  alone. 

He  was  getting  really  too  sleepy.  He  would  have  to 
rouse  himself  presently  and  go.  With  a  tremendous  effort 
he  dragged  himself  up  and  went.  Ransome  walked  with 
him  to  the  club  and  left  him  there. 

The  club-room  was  in  an  hotel  opposite  the  pier.  He 
could  get  a  bedroom  there  for  the  night ;  and  when  the 
night  was  over  he  would  be  able  to  think  what  he  would 
do.  He  couldn't  go  back  to  Prior  Street  as  he  was.  He 
was  too  sleepy  to  know  very  much  about  it,  but  he  knew 
that.  He  knew,  too,  that  something  had  happened  which 
might  make  it  impossible  for  him  to  go  back  at  all. 

Ransome  had  told  the  manager  of  the  hotel  to  take 


The  Helpmate  395 

care  of  him.  Every  now  and  then  the  manager  came  and 
looked  at  him ;  and  then  the  drowsiness  lifted  from  his 
brain  with  a  jerk,  and  he  knew  that  something  horrible 
had  happened.  That  was  why  they  kept  on  looking  at 
him. 

At  last  he  dragged  himself  to  his  room.  He  rang  the 
bell  and  ordered  more  whiskey.  This  time  he  drank,  not 
for  lucidity,  but  for  blessed  drunkenness,  for  kind  sleep 
and  pitiful  oblivion. 

He  slept  on  far  into  the  morning  and  woke  with  a 
headache.  At  twelve  Hannay  and  Ransome  called  for  him. 
It  was  a  fine  warm  day  with  a  southerly  wind  blowing 
and  sails  on  the  river.  Ransome's  yacht  lay  off  the  pierr 
with  Mrs.  Ransome  in  it.  The  sails  were  going  up  in 
Ransome's  yacht.  Hannay's  yacht  rocked  beside  it.  Dick 
took  Majendie  by  the  arm.  Dick,  outside  in  the  morn- 
ing light,  looked  paler  and  puffier  than  ever,  but  his  eyes 
were  kind.  He  had  an  idea.  Dick's  idea  was  that 
Majendie  should  run  up  with  him  and  Mrs.  Ransome 
to  Scarby  for  the  week-end.  Hannay  looked  troubled  as 
Dick  unfolded  his  idea. 

"I  wouldn't  go,  old  man,"  said  he,  "with  that  head  of 
yours." 

Dick  stared.  "Head?  Just  the  thing  for  his  head," 
said  Dick.  "It'll  do  him  all  the  good  in  the  world." 

Hannay  took  Dick  aside.  "No,  it  won't.  It  won't  do 
him  any  good  at  all." 

"I  say,  you  know,  I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at, 
but  you  might  let  the  poor  chap  have  a  little  peace.  Come 
along,  Majendie." 

Majendie  sent  a  telegram  to  Prior  Street  and  went. 

The  wind  blew  away  his  headache  and  put  its  own 
strong,  violent,  gusty  life  into  him.  He  felt  agreeably 


396  The  Helpmate 

excited  as  he  paced  the  slanting  deck.  He  stayed  there 
in  the  wind. 

Downstairs  in  the  cabin  the  Ransomes  were  quarrelling. 

"What  on  earth,"  said  she,  "possessed  you  to  bring 
him?" 

"And  why  not?" 

"Because  of  Sarah." 

"What's  she  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Well,  you  don't  want  them  to  meet  again,  do  you  ?" 

Dick  made  his  face  a  puffy  blank.  "Why  the  devil 
shouldn't  they?"  said  he. 

"Well,  you  know  the  trouble  he's  had  with  his  wife 
already  about  Sarah." 

"It  wasn't  about  Sarah.  It  was  another  woman  alto- 
gether !" 

"I  know  that.     But  she  was  the  beginning  of  it." 

"Let  her  be  the  end  of  it,  then.  If  you're  thinking 
of  hint.  The  sooner  that  wife  of  his  gets  a  separation 
the  better  it'll  be  for  him." 

"And  you  want  my  sister  to  be  mixed  up  in  that?" 

Mrs.  Ransome  began  to  cry. 

"She  can't  be  mixed  up  in  it.  He's  past  caring  for 
Sarah,  poor  old  girl." 

"She  isn't  past  caring  for  him.  She  isn't  past  any- 
thing," sobbed  Mrs.  Ransome. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Topsy.  There  isn't  any  harm  in 
poor  old  Toodles.  Majendie's  a  jolly  sight  safer  with 
Toodles,  I  can  tell  you,  than  he  is  with  that  wife  of  his." 

"Has  she  come  home,  then?" 

"She  came  yesterday  afternoon.  You  saw  what  he  was 
like  last  night.  If  I'd  left  him  to  himself  this  morning 
he'd  have  drunk  himself  into  a  fit.  When  a  sober — a  fan- 
.tastically  sober  man  does  that " 


The  Helpmate  397 

"What  does  it  mean?" 

"It  generally  means  that  he's  in  a  pretty  bad  way. 
And,"  added  Dick  pensively,  "they  call  poor  Toodles  a. 
dangerous  woman." 

All  night  the  yacht  lay  in  Scarby  harbour. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

TT  was  nine  o'clock  on  Sunday  evening.  Majendie 
•*•  was  in  Scarby,  in  the  hotel  on  the  little  grey  parade, 
where  he  and  Anne  had  stayed  on  their  honeymoon. 

Lady  Cayley  was  with  him.  She  was  with  him  in  the 
sitting-room  which  had  been  his  and  Anne's.  They  were 
by  themselves.  The  Ransomes  were  dining  with  friends 
in  another  quarter  of  the  town.  He  had  accepted  Sarah's 
invitation  to  dine  with  her  alone. 

The  Ransomes  had  tried  to  drag  him  away,  and  he  had 
refused  to  go  with  them.  He  had  very  nearly  quarrelled 
with  the  Ransomes.  They  had  been  irritating  him  all 
day,  till  he  had  been  atrociously  rude  to  them.  He  had 
told  Ransome  to  go  to  a  place  where,  as  Ransome  had 
remarked,  he  could  hardly  have  taken  Mrs.  Ransome. 
Then  he  had  explained  gently  that  he  had  had  enough 
knocking  about  for  one  day,  that  his  head  ached  abomi- 
nably, and  that  he  wished  they  would  leave  him  alone. 
It  was  all  he  wanted.  Then  they  had  left  him  alone,  with 
Sarah.  He  was  glad  to  be  with  her.  She  was  the  only 
person  who  seemed  to  understand  that  all  he  wanted  was 
to  be  let  alone. 

She  had  been  with  him  all  day.  She  had  sat  beside  him 
on  the  deck  of  the  yacht  as  they  cruised  up  and  down 
the  coast  till  sunset.  Afterwards,  when  the  Ransomes' 
friends  had  trooped  in,  one  after  another,  and  filled  the 
sitting-room  with  insufferable  sounds,  she  had  taken  him 
into  a  quiet  corner  and  kept  him  there.  He  had  felt 
grateful  to  her  for  that. 

398 


The  Helpmate  399 

She  had'been  angelic  to  him  during  dinner.  She  had 
let  him  eat  as  little  and  drink  as  much  as  he  pleased. 
And  she  had  hardly  spoken  to  him.  She  had  wrapped 
him  in  a  heavenly  silence.  Only  from  time  to  time,  out 
of  the  divine  silence,  her  woman's  voice  had  dropped  be- 
tween them,  soothing  and  pleasantly  indistinct.  He  had 
been  drinking  hard  all  day.  He  had  been  excited,  intol- 
erably excited;  and  she  soothed  him.  He  was  aware  of 
her  chiefly  as  a  large,  benignant  presence,  maternal  and 
protecting. 

His  brain  felt  brittle,  but  extraordinarily  clear,  lumi- 
nous, transparent,  the  delicate  centre  of  monstrous  and 
destructive  energies.  It  burned  behind  his  eyeballs  like 
a  fire.  His  eyes  were  hot  with  it,  the  pupils  strained, 
distended,  gorged  with  light. 

This  monstrous  brain  of  his  originated  nothing,  but 
ideas  presented  to  it  became  monstrous,  too.  And  their 
immensity  roused  no  sense  of  the  incredible. 

The  table  had  been  cleared  of  everything  but  coffee- 
cups,  glasses,  and  wine.  They  still  sat  facing  each  other. 
Sarah  had  her  arms  on  the  table,  propping  her  chin  up 
with  her  clenched  hands.  Her  head  was  tilted  back 
slightly,  in  a  way  that  was  familiar  to  him ;  so  that  she 
looked  at  him  from  under  the  worn  and  wrinkled  white 
lids  of  her  eyes.  And  as  she  looked  at  him  she  smiled 
slightly ;  and  the  smile  was  familiar,  too. 

And  he  sat  opposite  her,  with  his  chin  sunk  on  his 
breast.  His  bright,  dark,  distended  eyes  seemed  to  strain 
upwards  towards  her,  under  the  weight  of  his  flushed 
forehead. 

"Well,  Wallie,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  get  married,  you  see, 
after  all." 

"Married — married?     Why  didn't  you?" 


400  The  Helpmate 

"I  never  meant  to.    I  only  wanted  you  to  think  it." 

"Why  ?    Why  did  you  want  me  to  think  it  ?" 

He  was  no  longer  disinclined  to  talk.  Though  his 
brain  lacked  spontaneity,  it  responded  appropriately  to 
suggestion. 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  think  something  else." 

"What?     What  should  I  think?" 

His  voice  was  thick  and  rapid,  his  eyes  burned. 

"That  you'd  made  a  mess  of  my  life,  my  dear." 

"When  did  I  make  a  mess  of  your  life?" 

"Never  mind  when.  I  might  have  married,  only  I 
didn't.  That's  the  difference  between  me  and 
you." 

"And  that's  how  I  made  a  mess  of  your  life,  is  it?  I 
haven't  made  a  furious  success  of  my  own,  have  I  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  have  brought  it  up  against  you,  if  you  had. 
The  awful  thing  was  to  stand  by,  and  see  you  make  a 
sinful  muddle  of  it." 

"A  sinful  muddle?" 

"Yes.    That's  what  it's  been.    A  sinful  muddle." 

"Which  is  worse,  d'you  think,  a  sinful  muddle?  or  a 
muddling  sin  ?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me,  my  dear.  I  can't  see  any  dif- 
ference." 

"My  God— nor  I !" 

"There's  no  good  talking.  You're  so  obstinate,  Wallie, 
that  I  believe,  if  you  could  live  your  life  over  again, 
you'd  do  just  the  same." 

"I  would,  probably.    Just  the  same." 

"There's  nothing  you'd  alter?" 

"Nothing.    Except  one  thing." 

"What  thing?" 

"Never  mind  what." 


The  Helpmate  401 

"I  don't  mind,  if  the  one  thing  wasn't  me — was 
it?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"Was  it?"  she  insisted,  turning  the  full  blue  blaze  of 
her  eyes  on  him. 

He  started.  "Of  course  it  wasn't.  You  don't  suppose 
I'd  have  said  so  if  it  had  been,  do  you?" 

"A-ah !  So,  if  you  could  live  your  life  over  again,  you 
wouldn't  turn  me  out  of  it  ?  I  didn't  take  up  much  room, 
did  I  ?  Only  two  years." 

"Two  years?" 

"That  was  all.  And  you'd  let  me  stay  in  for  my  two 
poor  little  years.  Well,  that's  something.  It's  a  great 
deal.  It's  more  than  some  women  get." 

"Yes.    More  than  some  women  get." 

"Poor  Wallie.  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  live  your  life 
again." 

"No.     I  wouldn't." 

"I  would.  I'd  live  mine,  horrors  and  all.  Just  for 
those  two  little  years.  I  say,  if  we'd  keep  each  other  in 
for  those  two  years,  we  needn't  turn  each  other  out  now, 
need  we  ?" 

"Oh  no,  oh  no." 

His  brain  followed  her  lead,  originating  nothing. 

"See  here,"  she  said,  "if  I  come  in " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  vaguely. 

He  was  bending  forward  now,  with  his  hands  clasped 
on  the  table.  She  stretched  out  her  beautiful  white  arms 
and  covered  his  hands  with  hers,  and  held  them.  Her 
eyes  were  full-orbed,  luminous,  and  tender.  They  held 
him,  too. 

"I  come  in  on  my  own  terms,  this  time,  not  yours." 

"Oh,  of  course." 


402  The  Helpmate 

"I  mean  I  can't  come  in  on  the  same  terms  as  before. 
All  that  was  over  nine  years  ago,  when  you  married. 
You  and  I  are  older.  We  have  had  experience.  We've 
suffered  horribly.  We  know." 

"What  do  we  know  ?" 

She  let  go  his  hands. 

"At  least  we  know  the  limits — the  lines  we  must  draw. 
Fifteen  years  ago  we  didn't  know  anything,  either  of  us. 
We  were  innocents.  You  were  an  innocent  when  you 
left  me,  when  you  married." 

"When  I  married?" 

"Yes,  when  you  married.  You  were  a  blessed  inno- 
cent, or  you  couldn't  have  done  it.  You  married  a  good 
woman." 

"I  know." 

"So  do  I.  Well,  I've  given  one  or  two  men  a  pretty 
bad  time,  but  you  may  write  it  on  my  tombstone  that  I 
never  hurt  another  woman." 

"Of  course  you  haven't." 

"And  I'm  not  going  to  hurt  your  wife,  remember." 

"I'm  stupid,  I  don't  think  I  understand." 

"Can't  you  understand  that  I'm  not  going  to  make 
trouble  between  you  and  her?" 

"Me?    And  her?" 

"You  and  her.  You've  come  back  to  me  as  my  friend. 
We'll  be  better  friends  if  you  understand  that,  whatever 
I  let  you  do,  dear,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  make  love 
to  me." 

She  drew  herself  back  and  faced  him  with  her  reso- 
lution. 

She  knew  the  man  with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  His 
soul  must  be  off  its  guard  before  she  could  have  any 
power  over  his  body.  In  presenting  herself  as  unattain- 


The  Helpmate  403 

able,  she  would  make  herself  desired.  She  would  bring 
him  back. 

She  knew  what  fires  he  had  passed  through  on  his  way 
to  her.  She  saw  that  she  could  not  bring  him  back  by 
playing  poor,  tender  Maggie's  part.  She  could  not  move 
him  by  appearing  as  the  woman  she  once  was,  by  falling 
at  his  feet  as  she  had  once  fallen.  This  time,  it  was  he 
who  must  fall  at  hers. 

Anne  Majendie  had  held  her  empire,  and  had  made 
herself  for  ever  desirable,  by  six  years'  systematic  tortur- 
ings  and  deceptions  and  denials,  by  all  the  infidelities  of 
the  saint  in  love  with  her  own  sanctity.  The  woman  who 
was  to  bring  him  back  now  would  have  to  borrow  for  a 
moment  a  little  of  Anne  Majendie's  spiritual  splendour. 
She  saw  by  his  flaming  face  that  she  had  suggested  the 
thing  she  had  forbidden. 

"You  think,"  said  she,  "there  isn't  any  danger  ?  I  don't 
say  there  is.  But  if  there  was,  you'd  never  see  it.  You'd 
never  think  of  it.  You'd  be  up  to  your  neck  in  it  before 
you  know  where  you  were." 

He  moved  impatiently.  "At  any  rate  I  know  where  I 
am  now." 

"And  I,"  said  she,  in  response  to  his  movement,  "mean 
that  you  shall  stay  there."  She  paused.  "I  know  what 
you're  thinking.  You'd  like  to  know  what  right  I  have 
to  say  these  things  to  you." 

"Well— I'm  awfully  stupid " 

"I  earned  the  right  fifteen  years  ago.  When  a  woman 
gives  a  man  all  she  has  to  give,  and  gets  nothing,  there 
are  very  few  things  she  hasn't  a  right  to  say  to  him." 

"I've  no  doubt  you  earned  your  right." 

"I'm  not  reproaching  you,  dear.  I'm  simply  justify- 
ing the  plainness  of  my  speech." 


404  The  Helpmate 

He  stared  at  her,  but  he  did  not  answer. 

"Don't  think  me  hard,"  said  she.  "I'm  saying  these 

things  because  I  care  for  you.  Because "  She  rose, 

and  flung  her  arms  out  with  a  passionate  gesture  towards 
him.  "Oh,  my  dear — my  heart  aches  for  you  so  that  I 
can't  bear  it." 

She  came  over  to  where  he  sat  staring  at  her,  staring 
half  stupefied,  half  inflamed.  She  stood  beside  him,  and 
passed  her  hand  lightly  over  his  hair. 

"I  only  want  to  help  you." 

"You  can't  help  me." 

"I  know  I  can't.    I  can  only  say  hard  things  to  you." 

She  stooped,  and  her  lips  swept  his  hair.  For  a  mo- 
ment love  gave  her  back  her  beauty  and  the  enchantment 
of  her  youth;  it  illuminated  the  house  of  flesh  it  dwelt 
in  and  inspired.  And  yet  she  could  not  reach  him.  His 
soul  was  on  its  guard. 

"You've  come  back,"  she  whispered.  "You've  come 
back.  But  you  never  came  till  you  were  driven.  That's 
how  I  thought  you'd  come.  When  you  were  driven. 
When  there  was  nobody  but  me." 

He  heard  her  speaking,  but  her  words  had  no  signifi- 
cance that  pierced  his  thick  and  swift  sensations. 

"What  have  you  done  that  you  should  have  to  pay  so  ?" 

"What  have  I  done?" 

"Or  I?"  she  said. 

He  did  not  hear  her.  There  was  another  sound  in  his 
ears. 

Her  voice  ceased.  Her  eyes  only  called  to  him.  He 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  laid  his  arms  on  the  table,  and 
bowed  his  head  upon  them,  hiding  his  face  from  her. 
She  knelt  down  beside  him.  Her  voice  was  like  a  warm 
wind  in  his  ears.  He  groaned.  She  drew  a  short  sharp 


The  Helpmate  405 

breath,  and  pressed  her  shoulder  to  his  shoulder,  and  her 
face  to  his  hidden  face. 

At  her  touch  he  rose  to  his  feet,  violently  sobered, 
loathing  himself  and  her.  He  felt  his  blood  leap  like  a 
hot  fountain  to  his  brain.  When  she  clung  he  raged,  and 
pushed  her  from  him,  not  knowing  what  he  did,  thrusting 
his  hands  out,  cruelly,  against  her  breasts,  so  that  he 
wrung  from  her  a  cry  of  pain  and  anger. 

But  when  he  would  have  gone  from  her  his  feet  were 
loaded ;  they  were  heavy  weights  binding  him  to  the  floor. 
He  had  a  sensation  of  intolerable  sickness;  then  a  pain 
beat  like  a  hammer  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  stag- 
gered, and  fell,  headlong,  at  her  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

ANNE,  left  alone  at  her  writing-table,  had  worked  on 
far  into  Friday  night.  The  trouble  in  her  was  ap- 
peased by  the  answering  of  letters,  the  sorting  of  papers, 
the  bringing  of  order  into  confusion.  She  had  always 
had  great  practical  ability ;  she  had  proved  herself  a  good 
organiser,  expert  in  the  business  of  societies  and  com- 
mittees. 

In  her  preoccupation  she  had  not  noticed  that  her  hus- 
band had  left  the  house,  and  that  he  did  not  return  to  it. 

In  the  morning,  as  she  left  her  room,  the  old  nurse 
came  to  her  with  a  grave  face,  and  took  her  into  Ma j  en- 
die's  room.  Nanna  pointed  out  to  her  that  his  bed  had 
not  been  slept  in.  Anne's  heart  sank.  Later  on,  the  tele- 
gram he  sent  explained  his  absence.  She  supposed  that 
he  had  slept  at  the  Ransomes'  or  the  Hannays',  and  she 
thought  no  more  of  it.  The  business  of  the  day  again 
absorbed  her. 

In  the  afternoon  Canon  Wharton  called  on  her.  It  was 
the  recognised  visit  of  condolence,  delayed  till  her  return. 
In  his  manner  with  Mrs.  Majendie  there  was  no  sign  of 
the  adroit  little  man  of  the  world  who  had  drunk  whis- 
key with  Mrs.  Majendie's  husband  the  night  before.  His 
manner  was  reticent,  reverential,  not  obtrusively  tender. 
He  abstained  from  all  the  commonplaces  of  consolation. 
He  did  not  speak  of  the  dead  child ;  but  reminded  her  of 
the  greater  maternal  work  that  God  had  called  upon  her 
to  do,  and  told  her  that  the  children  of  many  mothers 

406 


The  Helpmate  407 

would  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed.  He  bade  her  believe 
that  her  life,  which  seemed  to  her  ended,  had  in  reality 
only  just  begun.  He  said  that,  if  great  natures  were 
reserved  for  great  sorrows,  great  afflictions,  they  were 
also  dedicated  to  great  uses.  Uses  to  which  their  sorrows 
were  the  unique  and  perfect  training. 

He  left  her  strengthened,  uplifted,  and  consoled. 

On  Sunday  morning  she  attended  the  service  at  All 
Souls.  In  the  afternoon  she  walked  to  the  great  flat 
cemetery  of  Scale,  where  Edith's  and  Peggy's  graves  lay 
side  by  side.  In  the  evening  she  went  again  to  All 
Souls. 

The  church  services  were  now  the  only  link  left  be- 
tween her  soul  and  God.  She  clung  desperately  to  them, 
trying  to  recapture  through  these  consecrated  public 
methods  the  peace  that  should  have  been  her  most  private 
personal  possession. 

For,  all  the  time,  now,  she  was  depressed  by  a  sense 
of  separation  from  the  Unseen.  She  struggled  for  com- 
munion; she  prostrated  herself  in  surrender,  and  was 
flung  back  upon  herself,  an  outcast  from  the  spiritual 
world.  She  was  alone  in  that  alien  place  of  earth  where 
everything  had  been  taken  from  her.  She  almost 
rebelled  against  the  cruelty  of  the  heavenly  hand,  that, 
having  smitten  her,  withheld  its  healing.  She  had  still 
faith,  but  she  had  no  joy  nor  comfort  in  her  faith. 
Therefore  she  occupied  herself  incessantly  with  works; 
appeasing,  putting  off  the  hours  that  waited  for  her  as 
their  prey. 

It  was  at  night  that  her  desolation  found  her  most  help- 
less. For  then  she  thought  of  her  dead  child  and  of  the 
husband  whom  she  regarded  as  worse  than  dead. 

She    had    one    terrible    consolation.      She    had    once 


408  The  Helpmate 

doubted  the  justice  of  her  attitude  to  him.  Now  she  was 
sure.  Her  justification  was  complete. 

She  was  sitting  at  work  again  early  on  Monday  morn- 
ing, in  the  drawing-room  that  overlooked  the  street. 

About  ten  o'clock  she  heard  a  cab  drive  up  to  the  door. 

She  thought  it  was  Majendie  come  back  again,  and 
she  was  surprised  when  Kate  came  to  her  and  told  her 
that  it  was  Mr.  Hannay,  and  that  he  wished  to  speak  to 
to  her  at  once. 

Hannay  was  downstairs,  in  the  study;  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  fireplace.  He  did  not  come  forward  to 
meet  her.  His  rosy,  sensual  face  was  curiously  set.  As 
she  approached  him,  his  loose  lips  moved  and  closed 
again  in  a  firm  fold. 

He  pressed  her  hand  without  speaking.  His  heaviness 
and  immobility  alarmed  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

Her  heart  was  like  a  wild  whirlpool  that  sucked  back 
her  voice  and  suffocated  it. 

"I've  come  with  very  bad  news,  Mrs.  Majendie." 

"Tell  me,"  she  whispered. 

"Walter  is  ill — very  dangerously  ill." 

"He  is  dead." 

The  words  seemed  to  come  from  her  without  grief, 
without  any  feeling.  She  felt  nothing  but  a  dull,  drag- 
ging pain  under  her  left  breast,  as  if  the  doors  of  her 
heart  were  closed  and  its  chambers  full  to  bursting. 

"No.    He  is  not  dead." 

Her  heart  beat  again. 

"He's  dying,  then." 

"They  don't  know." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"At  Scarby." 


The  Helpmate  409 

"Scarby?    How  much  time  have  I?" 

"There's  a  train  at  ten-twenty.  Can  you  be  ready  in 
five — seven  minutes?" 

"Yes." 

She  rang  the  bell. 

"Tell  Kate  where  to  send  my  things,"  she  said  as  she 
left  the  room.  Her  mind  took  possession  of  her,  so  that 
she  did  not  waste  a  word  of  her  lips,  or  a  single  motion 
of  her  feet.  She  came  back  in  five  minutes,  ready  to 
start. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  as  they  drove  to  the  station. 

"Haemorrhage  of  the  brain." 

"The  brain?" 

"Apoplexy." 

"Is  he  unconscious  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"He  will  not  know  me,"  she  said. 

Hannay  was  silent.  She  lay  back  and  kept  her  eyes 
closed. 

A  van  blocked  the  narrow  street  that  led  to  the  East 
Station.  The  driver  reined  in  his  horse.  She  opened  her 
eyes  in  terror. 

"We  shall  miss  the  train — if  we  stop." 

"No,  no,  we've  plenty  of  time." 

They  waited. 

"Oh,  tell  him  to  drive  round  the  other  way." 

"We  shall  miss  the  train  if  we  do  that." 

"Well,  make  that  man  in  front  move  on.  Make  him 
turn — up  there." 

The  van  turned  into  a  side  street,  and  they  drove 
on. 

The  Scarby  train  was  drawn  up  along  the  platform. 


4i o  The  Helpmate 

They  had  five  minutes  before  it  started;  but  she  hurried 
into  the  nearest  compartment.  They  had  it  to  them- 
selves. 

The  train  moved  on.  It  was  a  two  hours'  journey  to 
Scarby. 

A  strong  wind  blew  through  the  open  window  and  she 
shivered.  She  had  brought  no  warm  wrap  with  her. 
Hannay  laid  his  overcoat  over  her  knees  and  about  her 
body.  His  large  hands  moved  gently,  wrapping  it  close. 
She  thanked  him  and  tried  to  smile.  And  when  he  saw 
her  smile,  Hannay  was  sorry  for  the  things  he  had 
thought  and  said  of  her.  His  voice  when  he  spoke  to 
her  vibrated  tenderly.  She  resigned  herself  to  his  hands. 
Grief  made  her  passive  now. 

Hannay  sank  back  in  the  far  corner  and  left  her  to  her 
grief.  He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands  that  he  might 
not  see  her.  Poor  Hannay  hoped  that,  if  he  removed  his 
painful  presence,  she  would  allow  herself  the  relief  of 
tears. 

But  no  tears  fell  from  under  her  closed  eyelids.  Her 
soul  was  withdrawn  behind  them  into  the  darkness  where 
the  body's  pang  ceased,  and  there  was  help.  She  started 
when  the  train  stopped  at  Scarby  Station. 

As  they  stopped  at  the  hotel  there  came  upon  her  that 
reminiscence  which  is  foreknowledge  and  the  sense  of 
destiny. 

A  woman  was  coming  down  the  staircase  as  they  en- 
tered. She  did  not  see  her  at  first.  She  would  not  have 
seen  her  at  all  if  Hannay  had  not  taken  her  arm  and 
drawn  her  aside  into  the  shelter  of  a  doorway.  Then, 
as  the  woman  passed  out,  she  saw  that  it  was  Lady 
Cayley. 

She   looked   helplessly   at   Hannay.     Her   eyes    said, 


The  Helpmate  411 

"Where  is  he?"  She  wondered  where,  in  what  room, 
she  should  find  her  husband. 

She  found  him  upstairs  in  the  room  that  had  been  their 
bridal  chamber.  He  lay  on  their  bridal  bed,  motionless 
and  senseless.  There  was  a  deep  flush  on  one  side  of  his 
face,  one  corner  of  his  mouth  was  slightly  drawn,  and 
one  eyelid  drooped.  He  was  paralysed  down  his  left  side. 

His  lips  moved  mechanically  as  he  breathed,  and  his 
breath  came  with  a  deep  grating  sound.  His  left  arm 
was  stretched  outside,  upon  the  blanket.  A  nurse  stood 
at  the  head  of  the  bed.  She  moved  as  Anne  entered  and 
gave  place  to  her.  Anne  put  out  her  hand  and  touched 
his  arm,  caressing  it. 

The  nurse  said,  "There  has  been  no  change."  She 
lifted  his  arm  by  the  wrist  and  laid  it  in  his  wife's  hand 
that  she  might  see  that  he  was  paralysed. 

And  Anne  sat  still  by  the  bedside,  staring  at  her  hus- 
band's face,  and  holding  his  heavy  arm  in  her  hand,  as  if 
she  could  thus  help  him  to  bear  the  weight  of  it. 

Hannay  gave  one  look  at  her  as  she  sat  there.  He 
said  something  to  the  nurse  and  went  out  of  the  room. 
The  woman  followed  him. 

After  they  went  Anne  bowed  her  head  and  laid  it  on 
the  pillow  beside  her  husband's,  with  her  cheek  against 
his  cheek.  She  stayed  so  for  a  moment.  Then  she  lifted 
her  head  and  looked  about  her.  Her  eyes  took  note  of 
trifles.  She  saw  that  the  blankets  were  drawn  straight 
over  his  body,  as  if  over  the  body  of  a  dead  man. 
The  pillow-cases  and  the  end  of  the  sheet,  which  was 
turned  down  over  the  blankets,  were  clean  and  crease- 
less. 

He  could  not  move.  He  was  paralysed.  They  had  not 
told  her  that. 


412  The  Helpmate 

She  saw  that  he  wore  a  clean  white  nightshirt  of 
coarse  cotton.  It  must  have  been  lent  by  one  of  the  peo- 
ple of  the  hotel.  His  illness  must  have  come  upon  him 
last  night,  when  he  was  still  up  and  dressed.  They  must 
have  carried  him  in  here,  and  laid  him  in  the  clean  bed. 
Everything  about  him  was  very  white  and  clean.  She 
was  glad. 

She  sat  there  till  the  nurse  came  back  again.  She  had 
to  move  away  from  him  then.  It  hurt  her  to  see  the 
woman  bending  over  his  bed,  looking  at  him,  to  see  her 
hands  touching  him. 

A  bell  rang  somewhere  in  the  hotel.  Hannay  came 
in  and  told  her  that  there  was  luncheon  in  the  sitting- 
room.  She  shook  her  head.  He  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  and  spoke  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  child. 
She  must  eat,  he  said;  she  would  be  no  good  if  she  did 
not  eat.  She  got  up  and  followed  him.  She  ate  and  drank 
whatever  he  gave  her.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  hus- 
band, and  watched  beside  him  while  the  nurse  went  to 
her  meal.  The  terrible  thing  was  that  she  could  do  noth- 
ing for  him.  She  could  only  wait  and  watch.  The  nurse 
came  back  in  half  an  hour,  and  they  sat  there  together, 
all  the  afternoon,  one  on  each  side  of  the  bed,  waiting  and 
watching. 

Towards  evening  the  doctor,  who  had  come  at  mid- 
night and  in  the  morning,  came  again.  He  looked  at 
Anne  keenly  and  kindly,  and  his  manner  seemed  to  her 
to  say  that  there  was  no  hope.  He  made  experiments.  He 
brought  a  lighted  candle  and  held  it  to  the  patient's  eyes, 
and  said  that  the  pupils  were  still  contracted.  The  nurse 
said  nothing.  She  looked  at  Anne  and  she  looked  at  the 
doctor,  and  when  he  went  away,  she  made  a  sign  to 
Anne  to  keep  back  while  she  followed  him.  Anne  heard 


The  Helpmate  413 

them  talking  together  in  low  voices  outside  the  door,  and 
her  heart  ached  with  fear  of  what  he  would  say  to  her 
presently. 

He  sent  for  her,  and  she  came  to  him  in  the  sitting- 
room.  He  said,  "There  is  no  change."  Her  brain  reeled 
and  righted  itself.  She  had  thought  he  was  going  to  say, 
"There  is  no  hope." 

"Will  he  get  better?"  she  said. 

"I  cannot  tell  you." 

The  doctor  seated  himself  and  prepared  to  deal  long 
and  leisurely  with  the  case. 

"It's  impossible  to  say.  He  may  get  better.  He  may 
even  get  well.  But  I  should  do  wrong  if  I  let  you  hope 
too  much  for  that." 

"You  can  give  no  hope?"  she  said,  thinking  that  she 
uttered  his  real  thought. 

"I  don't  say  that.  I  only  say  that  the  chances  are  not 
— exclusively — in  favour  of  recovery." 

"The  chances?" 

"Yes.  The  chances."  The  doctor  looked  at  her,  con- 
sidering whether  she  were  a  woman  who  could  bear  the 
truth.  Her  eyes  assured  him  that  she  could.  I  don't  say 
he  won't  recover.  It's  this  way,"  said  he.  "There's  a 
clot  somewhere  on  the  brain.  If  it  absorbs  completely 
he  may  get  well — perfectly  well." 

"And  if  it  does  not  absorb  ?" 

"He  may  remain  as  he  is,  paralysed  down  the  left  side. 
The  paralysis  may  be  only  partial.  He  may  recover  the 
use  of  one  limb  and  not  the  other.  But  he  will  be  para- 
lysed. Partially  or  completely." 

She  pictured  it. 

"Ah — but,"  she  said,  laying  hold  on  hope  again,  "he 
will  not  die?" 


414  The  Helpmate 

"Well  —  there     may    be     further     lesions  —  in     which 


"He  will  die?" 

"He  may  die.    He  may  die  any  moment." 

She  accepted  it,  abandoning  hope. 

"Will  there  be  any  return  of  consciousness?  Will  he 
know  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  If  consciousness  returns  we  may  be- 
gin to  hope.  As  it  is,  I  don't  want  you  to  make  up  your 
mind  to  the  worst.  There  are  two  things  in  his  favour. 
He  has  evidently  a  sound  constitution.  And  he  has  lived 
—  up  till  now  —  Mr.  Hannay  tells  me,  a  rather  unusually 
temperate  life.  That  is  so  ?" 

"Yes.  He  was  most  abstemious.  Always  —  always. 
Why?" 

The  doctor  recalled  his  eyes  from  their  examination  of 
Mrs.  Majendie's  face.  It  was  evident  that  there  were 
some  truths  which  she  could  not  bear. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Majendie,  there  is  no  why,  of  course. 
That  is  in  his  favour.  There  seems  to  have  been  nothing 
in  his  previous  history  which  would  predispose  to  the 
attack." 

"Would  a  shock  —  predispose  him?" 

"A  shock?" 

"Any  very  strong  emotion  -  " 

"It  might.  Certainly.  If  it  was  recent.  Mr.  Hannay 
told  me  that  he  —  that  you  —  had  had  a  sudden  bereave- 
ment. How  long  ago  was  that?" 

"A  month  —  nearly  five  weeks." 

"Ah  —  so  long  ago  as  that  ?  No,  I  think  it  would  hardly 
be  likely.  If  there  had  been  any  recent  violent  emo- 
tion -  " 

"It  would  account  for  it?" 


The  Helpmate  415 

"Yes,  yes,  it  might  account  for  it." 

"Thank  you." 

He  was  touched  by  her  look  of  agony.  "If  there  is 
anything  else  I  can " 

"No.  Thank  you  very  much.  That  is  all  I  wanted  to 
know." 

She  went  back  into  the  sick-room.  She  stayed  there 
all  evening,  and  they  brought  her  food  to  her  there.  She 
stayed,  watching  for  the  sign  of  consciousness  that  would 
give  hope.  But  there  was  no  sign. 

The  nurse  went  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock.  Anne  had  in- 
sisted on  sitting  up  that  night.  Hannay  slept  in  the  next 
room,  on  a  sofa,  within  call. 

When  they  had  left  her  alone  with  her  husband,  she 
knelt  down  beside  his  bedside  and  prayed.  And  as  she 
knelt,  with  her  bowed  head  near  to  that  body  sleeping 
its  strange  and  terrible  sleep,  she  remembered  nothing 
but  that  she  had  once  loved  him ;  she  was  certain  of  noth- 
ing but  that  she  loved  him  still.  His  body  was  once  more 
dear  and  sacred  to  her  as  in  her  bridal  hour.  She  did 
not  ask  herself  whether  it  were  paying  the  penalty  of  its 
sin ;  her  compassion  had  purged  him  of  his  sin.  She  had 
no  memory  for  the  past.  It  seemed  to  her  that  all  her  life 
and  all  her  suffering  were  crowded  into  this  one  hour 
while  she  prayed  that  his  soul  might  come  back  and  speak 
to  her,  and  that  his  body  might  not  die.  The  hour 
trampled  under  it  that  other  hour  when  she  had  knelt  by 
the  loathed  bridal  bed,  wrestling  for  her  own  spiritual 
life.  She  had  no  life  of  her  own  to  pray  for  now.  She 
prayed  only  that  he  might  live. 

And  though  she  knew  not  whether  her  prayer  were 
answered  she  knew  that  it  was  heard. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

IT  was  the  evening  of  the  third  day.     There  was  no 
change  in  Majendie. 

Dr.  Gardner  had  been  sent  for.  He  had  come  and 
gone.  He  had  confirmed  the  Scarby  doctor's  opinion, 
with  a  private  leaning  to  the  side  of  hope.  Hannay,  who 
had  waited  to  hear  his  verdict,  was  going  back  to  Scale 
early  the  next  morning.  Mrs.  Majendie  had  been  in  her 
husband's  room  all  day,  and  he  had  seen,  little  of  her. 

He  was  sitting  alone  by  the  fire  after  dinner,  trying 
to  read  a  paper,  when  she  came  in.  Her  approach  was 
so  gentle  that  he  was  unaware  of  it  till  she  stood  beside 
him.  He  started  to  his  feet,  mumbling  an  apology  for 
his  bewilderment.  He  pulled  up  an  armchair  to  the  fire 
for  her,  wandered  uneasily  about  the  room  for  a  minute 
or  two,  and  would  have  left  it,  had  she  not  called  him 
back  to  her. 

"Don't  go,  Mr.  Hannay.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  turned,  with  an  air  of  frustrated  evasion,  and  re- 
mained, a  supremely  uncomfortable  presence. 

"Have  you  time?"  she  asked. 

"Plenty.    All  my  time  is  at  your  disposal." 

"You  have  been  very  kind " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Majendie " 

"I  want  you  to  be  kinder  still.  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
the  truth." 

"The  truth "     Hannay  tried  to  tighten  his  loose 

face  into  an  expression  of  judicial  reserve. 

416 


The  Helpmate  417 

"Yes,  the  truth.  There's  no  kindness  in  keeping  things 
from  me." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Majendie,  I'm  keeping  nothing  from 
you,  I  assure  you.  The  doctors  have  told  me  no  more 
than  they  have  told  you." 

"I  know.     It's  not  that." 

"What  is  it  that's  troubling  you?" 

"Did  you  see  Walter  before  he  came  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  see  him  on  Friday  night?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  he  perfectly  well  then?" 

"Er — yes — he  was  well.    Quite  well." 

Anne  turned  her  sorrowful  eyes  upon  him. 

"No.    There  was  something  wrong.    What  was  it?" 

"If  there  was  he  didn't  tell  me." 

"No.    He  wouldn't.    Why  did  you  hesitate  just  now?" 

"Did  I  hesitate?" 

"When  I  asked  you  if  he  was  well." 

"I  thought  you  meant  did  I  notice  any  signs  of  his  ill- 
ness coming  on.  I  didn't.  But  of  course,  as  you  know, 
he  was  very  much  shaken  by — by  your  little  girl's  death." 

"You  noticed  that  while  I  was  away  ?" 

"Y-es.  But  I  certainly  noticed  it  more  on  the  night 
you  were  speaking  of." 

"You  would  have  said,  then,  that  he  must  have  re- 
ceived a  severe  shock?" 

"Certainly — certainly  I  would." 

Hannay  responded  quite  cheerfully  in  his  immense 
relief. 

It  was  what  they  were  all  trying  for,  to  make  poor 
Mrs.  Majendie  believe  that  her  husband's  illness  was  to 
be  attributed  solely  to  the  shock  of  the  child's  death. 


4i 8  The  Helpmate 

"Do  you  think  that  shock  could  have  had  anything 
to  do  with  his  illness?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  At  least,  I  should  say  it  was  in- 
directly responsible  for  it." 

She  put  her  hand  up  to  hide  her  face.  He  saw  that 
in  some  way  incomprehensible  to  him,  so  far  from  shield- 
ing her,  he  had  struck  a  blow. 

"Dr.  Gardner  told  you  that  much,"  said  he.  He  felt 
easier,  somehow,  in  halving  the  responsibility  with 
Gardner. 

"Yes.  He  told  me  that.  But  he  had  not  seen  him  since 
October.  You  saw  him  on  Friday,  the  day  I  came 
home." 

Hannay  was  confirmed  in  his  suspicion  that  on  Friday 
there  had  been  a  scene.  He  now  saw  that  Mrs.  Majen- 
die  was  tortured  by  the  remembrance  of  her  part 
in  it. 

"Oh  well,"  he  said  consolingly.  "He  hadn't  been  him- 
self for  a  long  time  before  that." 

"I  know.     I  know.     That  only  makes  it  worse." 

She  wept  slowly,  silently,  then  stopped  suddenly  and 
held  herself  in  a  restraint  that  was  ten  times  more  pitiful 
to  see.  Hannay  was  unspeakably  distressed. 

"Perhaps,"  said  he,  "if  you  could  tell  me  what's  on 
your  mind,  I  might  be  able  to  relieve  you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Come,"  he  said  kindly,  "what  is  it,  really?  What  do 
you  imagine  makes  it  worse?" 

"I  said  something  to  him  that  I  didn't  mean." 

"Of  course  you  did,"  said  Hannay,  smiling  cheerfully. 
"We  all  say  things  to  each  other  that  we  don't  mean. 
That  wouldn't  hurt  him." 

"But  it  did.    I  told  him  he  was  responsible  for  Peggy's 


The  Helpmate  419 

death.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying.  I  let  him  think 
he  killed  her." 

"He  wouldn't  think  it." 

"He  did.  There  was  nothing  else  he  could  think.  If 
he  dies  I  shall  have  killed  him." 

"You  will  have  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  wouldn't 
think  twice  about  what  a  woman  said  in  her  anger  or  her 
grief.  He  wouldn't  believe  it.  He's  got  too  much 
sense.  You  can  put  that  idea  out  of  your  head  for 
ever." 

"I  cannot  put  it  out.  I  had  to  tell  you — lest  you  should 
think " 

"Lest  I  should  think — what?" 

"That  it  was  something  else  that  caused  his  illness." 

"But,  my  dear  lady — it  was  something  else.  I  haven't 
a  doubt  about  it." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said  quickly.  "He  had 
been  drinking — poor  dear." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"The  doctor  asked  me.  He  asked  me  if  he  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  taking  too  much." 

Hannay  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  discomfort  and  disap- 
pointment. 

"It's  no  good,"  said  she,  "trying  to  keep  things  from 
me.  And  there's  another  thing  that  I  must  know." 

"You're  distressing  yourself  most  needlessly.  There 
is  nothing  more  to  know." 

"I  know  that  woman  was  here.  I  do  not  know  whether 
he  came  here  to  meet  her." 

"Ah  well — that  I  can  assure  you  he  did  not." 

"Still — he  must  have  met  her.    She  was  here." 

"How  do  you  know  that  she  was  here?" 

"You  saw  her  yourself,  coming  out  of  the  hotel.    You 


420  The  Helpmate 

were  horrified,  and  you  pulled  me  back  so  that  I  shouldn't 
see  her." 

"There's  nothing  in  that,  nothing  whatever." 

"If  you'd  seen  your  own  face,  Mr.  Hannay,  you  would 
have  said  there  was  everything  in  it." 

"My  face,  dear  Mrs.  Majendie,  does  not  prove  that 
they  met.  Or  that  there  was  any  reason  why  they 
shouldn't  meet.  It  only  proves  my  fear  lest  Lady  Cayley 
should  stop  and  speak  to  you.  A  thing  she  wouldn't  be 
very  likely  to  do  if  they  had  met — as  you  suppose." 

"There  is  nothing  that  woman  wouldn't  do." 

"She  wouldn't  do  that.     She  wouldn't  do  that." 

"I  don't  know." 

"No.  You  don't  know.  So  you're  bound  to  give  her 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  I  advise  you  to  do  it.  For 
your  own  peace  of  mind's  sake.  And  for  your  husband's 
sake." 

"It  was  for  his  sake  that  I  asked  you  for  the  truth. 
Because " 

"You  wanted  me  to  clear  him?" 

"Yes.  Or  to  tell  me  if  there  is  anything  I  should 
forgive." 

"I  can  assure  you  he  didn't  come  here  to  see  Sarah 
Cayley.  As  to  forgiveness — you  haven't  got  to  forgive 
him  that;  and  if  you  only  understood,  you'd  find  that 
there  was  precious  little  you  ever  had  to  forgive." 

"If  I  only  understood.  You  think  I  don't  understand, 
even  yet?" 

"I'm  sure  you  don't.     You  never  did." 

"I  would  give  everything  if  I  could  understand  now." 

"Yes,  if  you  could.     But  can  you?" 

"I've  tried  very  hard.  I've  prayed  to  God  to  make  me 
understand." 


The  Helpmate  421 

Poor  Hannay  was  embarrassed  at  the  name  of  God. 
He  fell  to  contemplating  his  waistcoat  buttons  in  pro- 
found abstraction  for  a  while.  Then  he  spoke. 

"Look  here,  Mrs.  Majendie.  Poor  Walter  always  said 
you  were  much  too  good  for  him.  If  you'll  pardon  my 
saying  so,  I  never  believed  that  until  now.  Now,  upon 
my  soul,  I  do  believe  it.  And  I  believe  that's  where  the 
trouble's  been  all  along.  There  are  things  about  a  man 
that  a  woman  like  you  cannot  understand.  She  doesn't 
try  to  understand  them.  She  doesn't  want  to.  She'd  die 
rather  than  know.  So — well — the  whole  thing's  wrapped 
up  in  mystery,  and  she  thinks  it's  something  awful  and 
iniquitous,  something  incomprehensible." 

"Yes.     If  she  thinks  about  it  at  all." 

"My  dear  lady,  very  often  she  thinks  about  it  a  great 
deal  more  than  is  good  for  her,  and  she  thinks  wrong. 
She's  bound  to,  being  what  she  is.  Now,  when  an  or- 
dinary man  marries  that  sort  of  woman  there's  certain  to 
be  trouble." 

He  paused,  pondering.  "My  wife's  a  dear,  good,  little 
woman,"  he  said  presently;  "she's  the  best  little  woman 
in  the  world  for  me;  but  I  dare  say  to  outsiders,  she's  a 
very  ordinary  little  woman.  Well,  you  know,  I  don't  call 
myself  a  remarkably  good  man,  even  now,  and  I  wasn't 
a  good  man  at  all  before  she  married  me.  D'you  mind 
my  talking  about  myself  like  this?" 

"No."  She  tried  to  keep  herself  sincere.  "No.  I  don't 
think  I  do." 

"You  do,  I'm  afraid.  I  don't  much  like  it  myself.  But, 
you  see,  I'm  trying  to  help  you.  You  said  you  wanted  to 
understand,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes.     I  want  to  understand." 

"Well,  then,  I'm  not  a  good  man,  and  your  husband  is. 


422  The  Helpmate 

And  yet,  I'd  no  more  think  of  leaving  my  dear  little 
wife  for  another  woman  than  I  would  of  committing  a 
murder.  But,  if  she'd  been  'too  good'  for  me,  there's 
no  knowing  what  I  mightn't  have  done.  D'you 
see?" 

"I  see.  You're  trying  to  tell  me  that  it  was  my  fault 
that  my  husband  left  me." 

"Your  fault?  No.  It  was  hardly  your  fault,  Mrs. 
Majendie." 

He  meditated.  "There's  another  thing.  You  good 
women  are  apt  to  run  away  with  the  idea  that — that  this 
sort  of  thing  is  so  tremendously  important  to  us.  It  isn't. 
It  isn't." 

"Then  why  behave  as  if  it  were?" 

"We  don't.  That's  your  mistake.  Ten  to  one,  when 
a  man's  once  married  and  happy,  he  doesn't  think  about 
it  at  all.  Of  course,  if  he  isn't  happy — but,  even  then,  he 
doesn't  go  thinking  about  it  all  day  long.  The  ordinary 
man  doesn't.  He's  got  other  things  to  attend  to — his 
business,  his  profession,  his  religion,  anything  you  like. 
Those  are  the  important  things,  the  things  he  thinks 
about,  the  things  that  take  up  his  time." 

"I  see.     I  see.     The  woman  doesn't  count." 

"Of  course  she  counts.  But  she  counts  in  another  way. 
Bless  you,  the  woman  may  be  his  religion,  his  supersti- 
tion. In  your  husband's  case  it  certainly  was  so." 

Her  face  quivered. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "what  beats  you  is — how  a  man 
can  love  his  wife  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul,  and  yet 
be  unfaithful  to  her." 

"Yes.  If  I  could  understand  that,  I  should  understand 
everything.  Once,  long  ago,  Walter  said  the  same  thing 
to  me,  and  I  couldn't  understand." 


The  Helpmate  423 

"Well — well,  it  depends  on  what  one  calls  unfaithful- 
ness. Some  men  are  brutes,  but  we're  not  talking  about 
them.  We're  talking  about  Walter." 

"Yes.    We're  talking  about  Walter." 

"And  Walter  is  my  dearest  friend,  so  dear  that  I  hardly 
know  how  to  talk  to  you  about  him." 

"Try,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  know  more  about  him  than  anybody 
else.  And  I  never  knew  a  man  freer  from  any  weakness 
for  women.  He  was  always  so  awfully  sorry  for  them, 
don't  you  know.  Sarah  Cayley  could  never  have  fast- 
ened herself  on  him  if  he  hadn't  been  sorry  for  her.  No 
more  could  that  girl — Maggie  Forrest." 

"How  did  he  come  to  know  her?" 

"Oh,  some  fellow  he  knew  had  behaved  pretty  badly  to 
her,  and  Walter  had  been  paying  for  her  keep,  years 
before  there  was  anything  between  them.  She  got  de- 
pendent on  him,  and  he  on  her.  We  are  pathetically 
dependent  creatures,  Mrs.  Majendie." 

"What  was  she  like?" 

"She?  Oh,  a  soft,  simple,  clinging  little  thing.  And 
instead  of  shaking  her  off,  he  let  her  cling.  That's  how 
it  all  began.  Then,  of  course,  the  rest  followed.  I'm  not 
excusing  him,  mind  you.  Only "  Poor  Hannay  be- 
came shy  and  unhappy.  He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  lifted  it  from  them,  red,  as  if  with  shame.  "The  fact 
is,"  he  said,  "I'm  a  clumsy  fellow,  Mrs.  Majendie.  I 
want  to  help  you,  but  I'm  afraid  of  hurting  you." 

"Nothing  can  hurt  me  now." 

"Well "  He  pondered  again.  "If  you  want  to  get 

down  to  the  root  of  it,  it's  as  simple  as  hunger  and 
thirst." 

"Hunger  and  thirst,"  she  murmured. 


424  The  Helpmate 

"It's  what  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you.  When  you're 
not  thirsty  you  don't  think  about  drinking.  When  you 
are  thirsty,  you  do.  When  you're  driven  mad  with  thirst, 
you  think  of  nothing  else.  And  sometimes — not  always 
— when  you  can't  get  clean  water,  you  drink  water  that's 
— not  so  clean.  Though  you  may  be  very  particular. 
Walter  was — morally — the  most  particular  man  I  ever 
knew." 

"I  know.     I  know." 

"Mind  you,  the  more  particular  a  man  is,  the  thirstier 
he'll  be.  And  supposing  he  can  never  get  a  drop  of 
water  at  home,  and  every  time  he  goes  out,  some  kind 
person  offers  him  a  drink — can  you  blame  him  very  much 
if,  some  day,  he  takes  it?" 

"No,"  she  said.  She  said  it  very  low,  and  turned  her 
face  from  him. 

"Look  here,  Mrs.  Majendie,"  he  said,  "you  know  why 
I'm  saying  all  this." 

"To  help  me,"  she  said  humbly. 

"And  to  help  him.  Neither  you  nor  I  know  whether 
he's  going  to  live  or  die.  And  I've  told  you  all  this  so 
that,  if  he  does  die,  you  mayn't  have  to  judge  him 
harshly,  and  if  he  doesn't  die,  you  may  feel  that  he's — 
he's  given  back  to  you.  D'you  see  ?" 

"Yes,  I  see,"  she  said  softly. 

She  saw  that  there  were  depths  in  this  man  that  she 
had  not  suspected.  She  had  despised  Lawson  Hannay. 
She  had  detested  him.  She  had  thought  him  coarse  in 
grain,  gross,  unsufferably  unspiritual.  She  had  denied 
him  any  existence  in  the  world  of  desirable  persons.  She 
had  refused  to  see  any  good  in  him.  She  LdJ  wondered 
how  Edith  could  tolerate  him  for  an  instant.  Now  she 
knew. 


The  Helpmate  425 

She  remembered  that  Edith  was  a  proud  woman,  and 
that  she  had  said  that  her  pride  had  had  to  go  down  in 
the  dust  before  Lawson  Hannay.  And  now  she,  too, 
was  humbled  before  him.  He  had  beaten  down  all  her 
pride.  He  had  been  kind ;  but  he  had  not  spared  her.  He 
had  not  spared  her ;  but  the  gentlest  woman  could  not 
have  been  more  kind. 

She  rose  and  looked  at  him  with  a  strange  reverence 
and  admiration.  "Whether  he  lives  or  dies,"  she  said, 
"you  will  have  given  him  back  to  me." 

She  took  up  her  third  night's  watch. 

The  nurse  rose  as  she  entered,  gave  her  some  direc- 
tions, and  went  to  her  own  punctual  sleep. 

There  was  no  change  in  the  motionless  body,  in  the 
drawn  face,  and  in  the  sightless  eyes. 

Anne  sat  by  her  husband's  side  and  kept  her  hand 
upon  his  arm  to  feel  the  life  in  it.  She  was  consoled  by 
contact,  even  while  she  told  herself  that  she  had  no  right 
to  touch  him. 

She  knew  what  she  had  done  to  him.  She  had  ruined 
him  as  surely  as  if  she  had  been  a  bad  woman.  He  had 
loved  her,  and  she  had  cast  him  from  her,  and  sent  him  to 
his  sin.  There  was  no  humiliation  and  no  pain  that  she 
had  spared  him.  Even  the  bad  women  sometimes  spare. 
They  have  their  pity  for  the  men  they  ruin ;  they  have 
their  poor,  disastrous  love.  She  had  been  merciless 
where  she  owed  most  mercy. 

Three  people  had  tried  to  make  her  see  it.  Edith,  who 
was  a  saint,  and  that  woman,  who  was  a  sinner;  and 
Lawson  Hannay.  They  had  all  taken  the  same  view  of 
her.  They  had  all  told  her  the  same  thing. 

She  was  a  good  woman,  and  her  goodness  had  been 
her  huaband's  ruin. 


426  The  Helpmate 

Of  the  three,  Edith  alone  understood  the  true  nature  of 
the  wrong  she  had  done  him.  The  others  had  only  seen 
one  side  of  it,  the  material,  tangible  side  that  weighed 
with  them.  Through  her  very  goodness,  she  saw  that 
that  was  the  least  part  of  it;  she  knew  that  it  had  been 
the  least  part  of  it  with  him. 

Where  she  had  wronged  him  most  had  been  in  the  piti- 
less refusals  of  her  soul.  And  even  there  she  had  wronged 
him  less  by  the  things  she  had  refused  to  give  than  by 
the  things  that  she  had  refused  to  take.  There  were  sanc- 
tities and  charities,  unspeakable  tendernesses,  holy  and 
half-spiritual  things  in  him,  that  she  had  shut  her  eyes 
to.  She  had  shut  her  eyes  that  she  might  justify  herself. 

Her  fault  was  there,  in  that  perpetual  justification  and 
salvation  of  herself;  in  her  indestructible,  implacable 
spiritual  pride. 

And  she  had  shut  her  ears  as  she  had  shut  her  eyes. 
She  had  not  listened  to  her  sister's  voice,  nor  to  her  hus- 
band's voice,  nor  to  her  little  child's  voice,  nor  to  the  voice 
of  God  in  her  own  heart.  Then,  that  she  might  be  hum- 
bled, she  had  had  to  take  God's  message  from  the  per- 
sons whom  she  had  most  detested  and  despised. 

She  had  not  loved  well.  And  she  saw  now  that  men 
and  women  only  counted  by  their  power  of  loving.  She 
had  despised  and  detested  poor  little  Mrs.  Hannay;  yet 
it  might  be  that  Mrs.  Hannay  was  nearer  to  God  than 
she  had  been,  by  her  share  of  that  one  godlike  thing. 

She,  through  her  horror  of  one  sin,  had  come  to  look 
upon  flesh  and  blood,  on  the  dear  human  heart,  and  the 
sacred,  mysterious  human  body,  as  things  repellent  to  her 
spirituality,  fine  only  in  their  sacrifice  to  the  hungry,  soli- 
tary flame.  She  had  known  nothing  of  their  larger  and 
diviner  uses,  their  secret  and  profound  subservience  to 


The  Helpmate  427 

the  flame.  She  had  come  near  to  knowing  through  her 
motherhood,  and  yet  she  had  not  known. 

And  as  she  looked  with  anguish  on  the  helpless  body, 
shamed,  and  humiliated,  and  destroyed  by  her,  she  real- 
ised that  now  she  knew. 

Edith's  words  came  back  to  her,  "Love  is  a  provision 
for  the  soul's  redemption  of  the  body.  Or,  may  be,  for 
the  body's  redemption  of  the  soul."  She  understood  them 
now.  She  saw  that  Edith  had  spoken  to  her  of  the  mir- 
acle of  miracles.  She  saw  that  the  path  of  all  spirits 
going  upward  is  by  acceptance  of  that  miracle.  She,  who 
had  sinned  the  spiritual  sin,  could  find  salvation  only  by 
that  way. 

It  was  there  that  she  had  been  led,  all  the  while,  if 
she  had  but  known  it.  But  she  had  turned  aside,  and 
had  been  sent  back,  over  and  over  again,  to  find  the  way. 
Now  she  had  found  it ;  and  there  could  be  no  more  turn- 
ing back. 

She  saw  it  all.  She  saw  a  purity  greater  than  her  own, 
a  strong  and  tender  virtue,  walking  in  the  ways  of  earth 
and  cleansing  them.  She  saw  love  as  a  divine  spirit,  go- 
ing down  into  the  courses  of  the  blood  and  into  the  cham- 
bers of  the  heart,  moving  mortal  things  to  immortality. 
She  saw  that  there  is  no  spirituality  worthy  of  the  name 
that  has  not  been  proven  in  the  house  of  flesh. 

She  had  failed  in  spirituality.  She  had  fixed  the  spirit- 
ual life  away  from  earth,  beyond  the  ramparts.  She  saw 
that  the  spiritual  life  is  here. 

And  more  than  this,  she  saw  that  in  her  husband's  na- 
ture, hidden  deep  down  under  the  perversities  that  be- 
wildered and  estranged  her,  there  was  a  sense  of  these 
things,  of  the  sanctity  of  their  life.  She  saw  what  they 
might  have  made  of  it  together;  what  she  had  actually 


428  The  Helpmate 

made  of  it,  and  of  herself  and  him.  She  thought  of  his 
patience,  his  chivalry  and  forbearance,  and  of  his  deep 
and  tender  love  for  her  and  for  their  child. 

God  had  given  him  to  her  to  love ;  and  she  had  not 
loved  him.  God  had  given  her  to  him  for  his  help  and  his 
protection;  and  she  had  not  helped,  she  had  not  pro- 
tected him. 

God  had  dealt  justly  with  her.  She  had  loved  God; 
but  God  had  rejected  a  love  that  was  owing  to  her  hus- 
band. Looking  back,  she  saw  that  she  had  been  nearest 
to  God  in  the  days  when  she  had  been  nearest  to  her 
husband.  The  days  of  her  separation  had  been  the  days 
•of  her  separation  from  God.  And  she  had  not  seen  it. 

All  the  love  that  was  in  her  she  had  given  to  her  child. 
Her  child  had  been  born  that  she  might  see  that  the 
love  which  was  given  to  her  was  holy;  and  she  had  not 
seen  it.  So  God  had  taken  her  child  from  her  that  she 
might  see. 

And  seeing  that,  she  saw  herself  aright.  That  passion 
of  motherhood  was  not  all  the  love  that  was  in  her.  The 
Jove  that  was  in  her  had  sprung  up,  full-grown,  in  a 
single  night.  And  it  had  grown  to  the  stature  of  the 
diviner  love  she  saw.  And  as  she  felt  that  great  spring- 
ing up  of  love,  with  all  its  strong  endurances  and  chari- 
ties, she  saw  herself  redeemed  by  her  husband's  sin. 

There  she  paused,  trembling.  It  was  a  great  and  ter- 
rible mystery,  that  the  sin  of  his  body  should  be  the  sav- 
ing of  her  soul.  And  as  she  thought  of  the  price  paid 
for  her,  she  humbled  herself  once  more  in  her  shame. 

She  was  no  longer  afraid  that  he  would  die.  Some- 
thing told  her  that  he  would  live,  that  he  would  be  given 
back  to  her.  She  dared  not  think  how.  He  might  be 
given  back  paralysed,  helpless,  and  with  a  ruined  mind. 


The  Helpmate  429 

Her  punishment  might  be  the  continual  reproach  of  his 
presence,  her  only  consolation  the  tending  of  the  body  she 
had  tortured,  humiliated,  and  destroyed.  She  prayed 
God  to  be  merciful  and  spare  her  that. 

And  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  Majendie  woke 
from  his  terrible  sleep.  He  could  see  light.  Towards 
evening  his  breathing  softened  and  grew  soundless.  And 
on  the  dawn  of  the  sixth  day  he  called  her  name, 
"Nancy." 

Then  she  knew  that  for  a  little  time  he  would  be  given 
back  to  her.  And,  as  she  nursed  him,  love  in  her  moved 
with  a  new  ardour  and  a  new  surrender.  For  more  than 
seven  years  her  pulses  had  been  proof  against  his  passion 
and  his  strength.  Now,  at  the  touch  of  his  helpless  body, 
they  stirred  with  a  strange,  adoring  tenderness.  But  as 
yet  she  went  humbly,  in  her  fear  of  the  punishment  that 
might  be  measured  to  her.  She  told  herself  it  was 
enough  that  he  was  aware  of  her,  of  her  touch,  of  her 
voice,  of  her  face  as  it  bent  over  him.  She  hushed  the 
new-born  hope  in  her  heart,  lest  its  cry  should  wake  the 
angel  of  the  divine  retribution. 

Then,  week  by  week,  slowly,  a  little  joy  came  to  her, 
as  she  saw  the  gradual  return  of  power  to  the  paralysed 
body  and  clearness  to  the  flooded  brain.  She  wondered, 
when  he  would  begin  to  remember,  whether  her  face 
would  recall  to  him  their  last  interview,  her  cruelty,  her 
repudiation. 

At  last  she  knew  that  he  remembered.  She  dared  not 
ask  herself  "How  much?"  It  was  borne  in  on  her  that 
it  was  this  way  that  her  punishment  would  come. 

For,  as  he  gradually  recovered,  his  manner  to  her  be- 
came more  constrained ;  notwithstanding  his  helpless  de- 
pendence on  her.  He  was  shy  and  humble;  grateful  for 


430  The  Helpmate 

the  things  she  did  for  him ;  grateful  with  a  heart-rending, 
pitiful  surprise.  It  was  as  if  he  had  looked  to  come  back 
to  the  heartless  woman  he  had  known,  and  was  puzzled 
at  finding  another  woman  in  her  place. 

As  the  weeks  wore  on,  and  her  hands  had  less  to  do 
for  him,  she  felt  that  his  awakened  spirit  guarded  itself 
from  her,  fenced  itself  more  and  more  with  that  invio- 
lable constraint.  And  she  bowed  her  head  to  the  pun- 
ishment. 

When  he  was  well  enough  to  be  moved  she  took  him 
to  the  south  coast.  There  he  recovered  power  rapidly. 
By  the  end  of  February  he  showed  no  trace  of  his  terri- 
ble illness. 

They  were  to  return  to  Scale  in  the  beginning  of 
March. 

Then,  at  their  home-coming,  she  would  know  whether 
he  remembered.  There  would  be  things  that  they  would 
have  to  say  to  each  other. 

Sometimes  she  thought  that  she  could  never  say  them ; 
that  her  life  was  secure  only  within  some  pure,  charmed 
circle  of  inviolate  silence;  that  her  wisdom  lay  in  simply 
trusting  him  to  understand  her.  She  could  trust  him. 
After  all,  she  had  been  most  marvellously  "let  off";  she 
had  not  had  to  pay  the  extreme  penalty;  she  had  been 
allowed,  oh,  divinely  allowed,  to  prove  her  love  for  him. 
He  could  not  doubt  it  now;  it  possessed  her,  body  and 
soul ;  it  was  manifest  to  him  in  her  eyes,  and  in  her  voice, 
and  in  the  service  of  her  hands. 

And  if  he  said  nothing,  surely  it  would  mean  that  he, 
too,  trusted  her  to  understand. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THEY  had  come  back.  They  had  spent  their  first 
evening  together  in  the  house  in  Prior  Street. 
Anne  had  dreaded  the  return ;  for  the  house  remembered 
its  sad  secrets.  She  had  dreaded  it  more  on  her  hus- 
band's account  than  on  her  own. 

She  had  passed  before  him  through  the  doorway  of  the 
study ;  and  her  heart  had  ached  as  she  thought  that  it  was 
in  that  room  that  she  had  struck  at  him  and  put  him 
from  her.  As  he  entered,  she  had  turned,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  them,  and  lifted  her  face  to  his  and  kissed 
him.  He  had  looked  at  her  with  his  kind,  sad  smile,  but 
he  had  said  nothing.  All  that  evening  they  had  sat  by 
their  hearth,  silent  as  watchers  by  the  dead. 

From  time  to  time  she  had  been  aware  of  his  eyes 
resting  on  her  in  their  profound  and  tragic  scrutiny.  She 
had  been  reminded  then  of  the  things  that  yet  remained 
unsaid. 

At  night  he  had  risen  at  her  signal;  and  she  had 
waited  while  he  put  the  light  out;  and  he  had  followed 
her  upstairs.  At  her  door  she  had  stopped,  and  kissed 
him,  and  said  good-night,  and  she  had  turned  her  head 
to  look  after  him  as  he  went.  Surely,  she  had  thought, 
he  will  come  back  and  speak  to  me. 

And  now  she  was  still  waiting  after  her  undressing. 
She  said  to  herself,  "We  have  come  home.  But  he 
will  not  come  to  me.  He  has  nothing  to  say  to  me. 


432  The  Helpmate 

There  is  nothing  that  can  be  said.  If  I  could  only  speak 
to  him." 

She  longed  to  go  to  him,  to  kneel  at  his  feet  and 
beg  him  to  forgive  her  and  take  her  back  again,  as  if 
it  had  been  she  who  had  sinned.  But  she  could 
not. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  before  the  couch  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  ready  to  slip  off  her  long  white  dressing- 
gown.  She  paused.  Her  eyes  rested  on  the  silver  cru- 
cifix, the  beloved  symbol  of  redemption.  She  remem- 
bered how  he  had  given  it  to  her.  She  had  not  under- 
stood him  even  then ;  but  she  understood  him  now.  She 
longed  to  tell  him  that  she  understood.  But  she  could 
not. 

She  turned  suddenly  as  she  heard  his  low  knock  at 
her  door.  She  had  been  afraid  to  hear  it  once;  now 
it  made  her  heart  beat  hard  with  longing  and  another 
fear.  He  came  in.  He  stood  by  the  closed  door,  gazing 
at  her  with  the  dumb  look  that  she  knew. 

She  went  to  meet  him,  with  her  hands  outstretched  to 
him,  her  face  glowing. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "you've  come  back  to  me. 
You've  come  back." 

He  looked  down  on  her  with  miserable  eyes.  She  put 
her  arms  about  him.  His  face  darkened  and  was  stern 
to  her.  He  held  her  by  her  arms  and  put  her  from 
him,  and  she  trembled  in  all  her  body,  humiliated  and 
rebuked. 

"No.  Not  that,"  he  said.  "Not  now.  I  can't  ask  you 
to  take  me  back  now." 

"Need  you  ask  me — now?" 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know. 
Darling,  you  don't  know." 


The  Helpmate  433 

At  the  word  of  love  she  turned  to  him,  beseeching 
him  with  her  tender  eyes. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said.     "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

She  sat  down  on  the  couch,  and  made  room  for  him 
beside  her. 

"I  don't  want,"  she  said,  "to  know  more  than  I 
do." 

"I'm  afraid  you  must  know.  When  you  do  know  you 
won't  talk  about  taking  me  back." 

"I  have  taken  you  back." 

"Not  yet.  I'd  no  business  to  come  back  at  all,  with- 
out telling  you." 

"Tell  me,  then,"  she  said. 

"I  can't.     I  don't  know  how." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his. 

"Don't,"  he  said,  "don't.  I'd  rather  you  didn't  touch 
me." 

She  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  and  her  smile  cut  him  to 
the  heart. 

"Walter,"  she  said,  "are  you  afraid  of  me?" 

"Yes." 

"You  needn't  be." 

"I  am.    I'm  afraid  of  your  goodness." 

She  smiled  again. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  good  ?" 

"I  know  you  are." 

"You  don't  know  how  you're  hurting  me." 

"I've  always  hurt  you.  And  I'm  going  to  hurt  you 
more." 

"You  only  hurt  me  when  you  talk  about  my  goodness. 
I'm  not  good.  I  never  was.  And  I  never  can  be,  dear, 
if  you're  afraid  of  me.  What  is  it  that  I  must  know?" 

His  voice  sank. 


434  The  Helpmate 

"I've  been  unfaithful  to  you.     Again." 

"With  whom?"  she  whispered. 

"I  can't  tell  you.    Only — it  wasn't  Maggie." 

"When  was  it?" 

"I  think  it  was  that  Sunday — at  Scarby." 

"Why  do  you  say  you  think  ?"  she  said  gently.  "Don't 
you  know?" 

"No.  I  don't  know  much  about  it.  I  didn't  know  what 
I  was  doing." 

"You  can't  remember?" 

"No.     I  can't  remember." 

"Then — are  you  sure  you  were ?" 

"Yes.  I  think  so.  I  don't  know.  That's  the  horri- 
ble part  of  it.  I  don't  know.  I  can't  remember  anything 
about  it.  I  must  have  been  drinking." 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers  again.  "Walter,  dear,  don't 
think  about  it.  Don't  think  it  was  possible.  Just  put  it 
all  out  of  your  head  and  forget  about  it." 

"How  can  I  when  I  don't  know?"  He  rose.  "See 
here — I  oughtn't  to  look  at  you — I  oughtn't  to  touch  you 
— I  oughtn't  to  live  with  you,  as  long  as  I  don't  know. 
You  don't  know,  either." 

"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  don't  know.  Does  that  mat- 
ter so  very  much  when  I  understand  ?" 

"Ah,  if  you  could  understand.  But  you  never 
could." 

"I  do.  Supposing  I  had  known,  do  you  think  I  should 
not  have  forgiven  you?" 

"I'm  certain  you  wouldn't.    You  couldn't.    Not  that." 

"But,"  she  said,  "I  did  know." 

His  mouth  twitched.  His  eyelids  dropped  before  her 
gaze. 

"At  least,"  she  said,  "I  thought " 


The  Helpmate  435 

"You  thought  that?" 

"Yes." 

"What  made  you  think  it?" 

"I  saw  her  there." 

"You  saw  her  ?  You  thought  that,  and  yet — you  would 
have  let  me  come  back  to  you?" 

"Yes.     I  thought  that." 

As  he  stood  before  her,  shamed,  and  uncertain,  and  un- 
happy, the  new  soul  that  had  been  born  in  her  pleaded 
for  him  and  assured  her  of  his  innocence. 

"But,"  she  said  again,  "I  do  not  think  it  now." 

"You — you  don't  believe  it?" 

"No.     I  believe  in  you." 

"You  believe  in  me?    After  everything?" 

"After  everything." 

"And  you  would  have  forgiven  me  that?" 

"I  did  forgive  you.  I  forgave  you  all  the  time  I 
thought  it.  There's  nothing  that  I  wouldn't  forgive  you 
now.  You  know  it." 

"I  thought  you  might  forgive  me.  But  I  never  thought 
you'd  let  me  come  back — after  that." 

"You  haven't.  You  haven't.  You  never  left  me.  It's 
I  who  have  come  back  to  you." 

"Nancy "  he  whispered. 

"It's  I  who  need  forgiveness.  Forgive  me.  Forgive 
me." 

"Forgive  you?    You?" 

"Yes,  me." 

Her  voice  died  and  rose  again,  throbbing  to  her  con- 
fession. 

"I  was  unfaithful  to  you." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  saying,  dear.  You 
couldn't  have  been  unfaithful  to  me." 


436  The  Helpmate 

"If  I  had  been,  would  you  have  forgiven  me?" 

He  looked  at  her  a  long  time. 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply. 

"You  could  have  forgiven  me  that?" 

"I  could  have  forgiven  you  anything." 

She  knew  it.  There  was  no  limit  to  his  chivalry,  his 
charity.  "Well,"  she  said,  "you  have  worse  things  to 
forgive  me." 

"What  have  I  to  forgive?" 

"Everything.  If  I  had  forgiven  you  in  the  beginning, 
you  would  not  have  had  to  ask  for  forgiveness  now." 

"Perhaps  not,  Nancy.    But  that  wasn't  your  fault." 

"It  was  my  fault.  It  was  all  my  fault,  from  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end." 

"No,  no." 

"Yes,  yes.  Mr.  Hannay  knew  that.  He  told  me 
so." 

"When?" 

"At  Scarby." 

Majendie  scowled  as  he  cursed  Hannay  in  his  heart. 

"He  was  a  brute,"  he  said,  "to  tell  you  that." 

"He  wasn't.     He  was  kind.     He  knew." 

"What  did  he  know?" 

"That  I  would  rather  think  that  I  was  bad  than  that 
you  were." 

"And  would  you?" 

"Yes  I  would — now.  Mr.  Hannay  spared  me  all  he 
could.  He  didn't  tell  me  that  if  you  had  died  at  Scarby 
it  would  have  been  my  fault.  But  it  would  have 
been." 

He  groaned. 

"Darling — you  couldn't  say  that  if  you  knew  anything 
about  it." 


The  Helpmate  437 

"I  know  all  about  it." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Listen,  Walter.  You've  been  unfaithful  to  me — once, 
years  after  I  gave  you  cause.  I've  been  unfaithful  to 
you  ever  since  I  married  you.  And  your  unfaithfulness 
was  nothing  to  mine.  A  woman  once  told  me  that.  She 
said  you'd  only  broken  one  of  your  marriage  vows, 
and  I  had  broken  all  of  them,  except  one.  It  was 
true." 

"Who  said  that  to  you?" 

"Never  mind  who.  It  needed  saying.  It  was  true.  I 
sinned  against  the  light.  I  knew  what  you  were.  You 
were  good  and  you  loved  me.  You  were  unhappy 
through  loving  me,  and  I  shut  my  eyes  to  it.  I've  done 
more  harm  to  you  than  that  poor  girl — Maggie.  You 
would  never  have  gone  to  her  if  I  hadn't  driven  you. 
You  loved  me." 

"Yes,  I  loved  you." 

She  turned  to  him  again;  and  her  eyes  searched  his 
for  absolution.  "I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing.  I 
didn't  understand." 

"No.  A  woman  doesn't,  dear.  Not  when  she's  as 
good  as  you." 

At  that  a  sob  shook  her.  In  the  passion  of  her  abase- 
ment she  had  cast  off  all  her  beautiful  spiritual  apparel. 
Now  she  would  have  laid  down  her  crown,  her  purity, 
at  his  feet. 

"I  thought  I  was  so  good.  And  I  sinned  against  my 
husband  more  than  he  ever  sinned  against  me." 

He  took  her  hands  and  tried  to  draw  her  to  him,  but 
she  broke  away,  and  slid  to  the  floor  and  knelt  there, 
bowing  her  head  upon  his  knee.  Her  hair  fell,  loosened, 
upon  her  shoulders,  veiling  her. 


43 8  The  Helpmate 

He  stooped  and  raised  her.  His  hand  smoothed  back 
the  hair  that  hid  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  closed. 

Her  drenched  eyelids  felt  his  lips  upon  them.  They 
opened ;  and  in  her  eyes  he  saw  love  risen  to  immortality 
through  mortal  tears.  She  looked  at  him,  and  she  knew 
him  as  she  knew  her  own  soul. 


THE  END 


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